Threadbare
by Marine Galdeone
Summary: [Complete] In his seventh year, Harry’s body is ravaged, his soul debauched, and his will to live worn thin. The strength he has relied on for years abandons him, and he is left torn. Broken. Draco Malfoy is determined to fix him, but if only he knew how.
1. Threadbare

**Threadbare - One**

**_Harry._**   
  
You never thought you'd know how it is to have termites feeding on your soul. You haven't experienced too many good times in your life, certainly; but you always believed that because of this, you'd know how to shield yourself from any kind of emotional pain: be numb to it, even, which is what everyone seems to expect from you. But you can feel it now, and it gets worse every passing second. It is constant and continual, but it cannot numb you. Yet.   
  
Draco is slouched in his armchair when you enter the disused drawing room on the second floor of the Astronomy tower. He hasn't lit the fireplace, so it is dark and cold. You can only see his shape from the dim rays of moonlight entering a small window just below the ceiling. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his legs are spread abjectly before him. At the right side of his chair is yours: the one you'd spent more times snogging in, simply because it's more comfortable for two. You were the one who found this room, so you chose it to sit on whenever you met him late evenings and spoke with him about nothing and, well, everything.   
  
You sit down on it slowly, like an old man. Your body aches. Most of the pain is concentrated in places that have never hurt before, so it is impossible to ignore it. But inside, you feel sick and dirty and _used_. Inside is where you think you're dying.   
  
_"Incendio,"_ you murmur, pointing your wand to the fireplace before you. Flames blaze, and in a second, warmth settles over you, and the room is painted in cozy light. Your body feels better, but only slightly: there is only so much a fire can do. You turn to look at him. The shadows dance on his right cheek, pale and exquisite as ever. His lips are caught in a frown, and his eyes are sad. You wonder if you should speak first, and tell him what you think he'd want to hear.   
  
"You're an hour late," he spits out, the bitterness evident in his tone, his voice like ice.   
  
"I'm sorry."   
  
"I saw Weasley in the crowd. Why weren't you with him?"   
  
_Hands on your shoulders. Your chest. Your hips._   
  
Poison is boiling in your blood, disturbing its flow, gradually destroying the life that once reigned.   
  
"I needed to do my homework." You're sure that it's hardly an excuse. You would never give up a Quidditch match for homework, except perhaps for Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw, in which neither of you would play. But you decide that you can't tell him. Not yet, anyway, not when he feels bad enough as it is. You've heard all about the game.   
  
"You told me you'd come," he says. "It's the first game of the year, and I was really looking forward to..."   
  
"I know. I'm sorry."   
  
You can hear his swallow: it is him enduring, because he knows he's done what you've done, before, albeit with a different reason. When he stood you up for two days straight, you were angry with him for a week -- but you forgave him eventually. He was confused, and he wasn't sure of what he really wanted: but in the end, he came back to you, and you've been together since.   
  
"Ravenclaw..." he begins.   
  
"It's all right," you say, but you can't be certain. It's his second year as team Captain, and they've only ever lost to Gryffindor. You think he must feel helpless, maybe like you did when Cedric was killed and you were tied to a tombstone with your life flashing before your eyes.   
  
"If only you'd seen that dive, Harry, it was... I don't know. I messed it up, somehow, and Lisa Turpin got ahead and won. Thank heavens Father didn't see it. He had to go about a quarter of an hour before the end. One of his bloody business appointments again, I bet, but it's just as well."   
  
Your breath gets caught in your throat, and for a long while, you can think of nothing to say. The words you had in your mind scatter like dandelions in the breeze. And when, for the first time that evening, he looks toward you uncertainly, as if deciding whether to wait for a reply, you say, "You're a great Captain and Seeker, Draco. You shouldn't let one loss get you down."   
  
"I know, Harry, but..." he sighs, staring at the wall above the mantle. The sea green paint is chipped and ugly. But really, you've never really cared. When you discovered this room last school year, when your relationship was just beginning, paint quality was the last thing on your mind. Both your hormones were on overdrive and the desire to touch flowed madly in your blood. You never have gotten too far with him, though. You would always say stop, and he would always say it was okay: you had forever ahead of you.   
  
You almost sigh -- but then, you remember that this is his time. Yours will come someday else. And so you apologize again: "I'm sorry I didn't come. Really, if I could turn back time, I would've gone."   
  
_I would've gone anywhere but where I was._   
  
"I know, Harry. It's all right."   
  
Yeah. It is.   
  
The fire before you dances, tantalizing, and for a moment you think about flinging yourself in, where there would be no hurt or worries or hands: hands that are not yours, hands that are not Draco's: roaming freely and claiming you. Poisoning your soul. What would it feel like to be free of this venom? Free of the hands that you can still feel?   
  
You reach out your hand to lightly touch his: dirty skin on silk; demons on the shores of heaven. 

~~~ 

**_Draco._**   
  
You enter the Great Hall late the next morning in a huff, very upset with the precedent Saturday. First, you lose to Ravenclaw. Then Harry meets you an hour later than the time you'd arranged. And he says nothing but a couple apologies to you the entire evening -- it wasn't the sort of companionable silence that you sometimes share with him. You thought it was, in the beginning; but then half an hour passed, with you two merely staring at the fire in silence, and he still wasn't attempting conversation. When you gave it a try, he would give only a few nods and "Mmmm"s. That was when you told him, annoyed, that you had things to do. He replied that he'd better go too, and so you parted ways and that was that.   
  
You don't know what his problem is. Being disappointed in you is out of the question: he'd never act like your father, and he'd never expect you to be perfect. And you can't see any other reason why he seemed so... closed. You've been doing so well since your relationship began, back in the Easter Holidays of your sixth year. You exchanged many letters in the summer, and in this way got to know each other better. Now, after two months of seventh year, you've had very few spats: all of them have been settled within two days, because neither of you can stand ignoring each other in the halls or not having your enjoyable evening rendezvous. But with all of them, he told you what was wrong, which is more than you can say for the way he acted last night. You don't know if he meant to or not, but you didn't like it, nonetheless.   
  
A quick scan of his house table tells you that he isn't eating this morning. You guess he's sleeping in; otherwise, he'd be chatting with his friends, or sitting with them, at least. Hmm, you think, and you sit down to breakfast, thinking nothing of it until lunch, when he finally decides to come down and grace the Hall (and you) with his presence.   
  
His hair looks untidier than you'd deemed possible, and his eyes have bags under them, as if he hadn't had a wink of sleep the night before. There is something odd about his posture: _tired_ is the first word that comes to mind. You recognize it, but it's difficult to describe. It's a very slight change that only the people close to him would be able to see.   
  
Some of the other Gryffindors know about you and Harry; but usually, during meals, he would make sure no one at all is looking before sending you a smile across the Hall. And you would smile back like a lovesick teenager (you're reluctant to admit that maybe you are, after all), because that smile was only for you and it made you feel special. Wanted. And you rarely ever felt like that before Harry came along.   
  
Now, however, is a different story. It would be so much like the spat scenario, if he didn't look so miserable as he avoids looking at you. You try to catch him off-guard by going over to his table and calling out "Potter!"; but one look in your general direction, and he averts his eyes and tries to pretend you don't exist.   
  
The strange thing is that you know he wants to look at you: you can see it in the way he trains his eyes downward instead of at his House-mates, and in how he eats too quietly for you to think he's deliberately disregarding you. No: it's not anger or stubbornness, just... well, you don't know yet. But you resolve to find out. 

~~~ 

**_Harry._**   
  
You awake with your heart beating so loudly that for a moment, you think it was what woke you up in the first place. Then you remember, in the dream, teeth on the crook of your shoulder, nails digging into your hips. A heavy torso pinning yours down. Foreign breath on your ear. Gently spoken words that burn: an accent that you recognize.   
  
It haunts you still, four days later. It must be Tuesday night or Wednesday morning, but instead of glancing at the clock, you put on your glasses, draw back the velvet hangings around your bed, and look around the dormitory to check if anyone besides Ron and company are lurking around. You always thought that privacy, and space, and security lie behind the doors of Hogwarts. But you've found out, in the most painful way, that security is never truly secure.   
  
There are no suspicious rustles, no footsteps, no sound besides the boys breathing and Neville's soft snores. Still, as you lie back down, you bunch the sheets up with your fists and pull them tightly up until your chin. The four-poster seems so large, suddenly: as it would be to a child having night terrors. You still feel him on your skin, and under it, and outside, and inside you. You still feel like a house-elf's rags: dirty, used. Threadbare.   
  
He's everywhere.   
  
Ice water runs down your spine. Your mind is harried by the dreams you have at night, and by the memories they bring. Tormented by _him._   
  
You haven't spoken with Draco for three days, and you don't know if you can muster the courage to. You've been ignoring him at all costs, trying not to spare him as much as two glances, not replying to his notes, pretending you don't hear when he calls out your name. Whenever you see him, you remember what both of you had, and how it was stolen. You can't bear it.   
  
Maybe you never were as strong as you thought yourself to be. 


	2. Cheating

**Two: Cheating**

**_Draco._**   
  
After three days, it isn't too hard to figure out that Harry is avoiding you. What baffles you is _why._   
  
Because of curiosity -- or perhaps neediness - Thursday afternoon finds you on the Quidditch pitch, waiting for the usual three-hour Gryffindor practice to start. The autumn colors are beautiful around you; but the cold breeze seeps in through your robes and you shiver, wishing you had brought along your cloak. You sit down on the bleachers, and it isn't long before the Gryffindor team walk out of the locker room, their Quidditch robes snug around them.   
  
"Cold," you hear Weasley remark before he spots you by the stands. You trudge over to them, instinctively searching for a head of black hair; but Harry is nowhere to be found.   
  
"Where is he?" you demand. Ginny Weasley raises an eyebrow.   
  
"He wasn't feeling very well, so he decided to skip practice," she replies, looking at you warily. "Didn't you know?"   
  
"No, he hasn't been..."   
  
Your voice trails off, not willing to finish the sentence. Ron Weasley, acting as substitute Captain, you presume, tells them to go start practicing. When they're all in the air, he turns back to you. There is no typical trace of dislike on his face, the one he does his best to hide for the sake of his best friend. Instead, there's worry. You don't know if you should feel better.   
  
"Are you two having problems?" he asks. His straightforwardness takes you aback.   
  
"No, not that I know of... why?"   
  
He shrugs, observing the team from a distance. "Harry's been weird lately. When he told me he felt too ill to practice, he didn't seem as sick as, well, I don't know. Tired. Sad. I'd thought it had something to do with you. I mean, it didn't really seem like you were having a fight, but I just had to make sure."   
  
So Weasley's noticed as well.   
  
"Is he in the hospital wing?"   
  
He shakes his head. "No, he said he'd just stay in bed, get some rest."   
  
"All right." You consider, for a moment, asking if you could possibly visit him; but he says quickly, as if afraid he might someday regret it, "The password is _telephone._"   
  
You step back. "Thanks, Weasley."   
  
"Anytime."   
  
It's only when you turn around and walk away that you awkwardly realize that, not only did Harry skip Quidditch to stay in bed, but you also had a civil conversation with the Weasel lasting more than ten seconds, including the Gryffindor common room password, and ending with a word of gratitude. From you.   
  
Yes, the world has turned upside-down. 

~~~ 

**_Harry._**   
  
It's quite warm in the room, but you wrap your arms about yourself. You're alone, seated on a chair beside the window, _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Seven_ forgotten on the floor before you. Your mind is devoid of thoughts, your eyes trained outside. The clouds are dark, as if rain is about to come down in torrents. They embrace the trees of red and gold as if attempting to immerse them in a monochrome gray.   
  
You're so caught up in everything: nothing: that you don't notice anyone coming in until you see, reflected on the smooth glass, eyes as gray as the sky outside.   
  
He stares at your reflection, his cheeks flushed and his hair in uncommon disarray. His shallow breath tells you he has hurried to see you, but he doesn't make another sound.   
  
You haven't been this close to him since -- when? He has a scent of fresh laundry: not a sharp smell, but soft. Pleasing. Unlike:   
  
_The cutting smell of woods, of rain, of the ocean... wizard perfume, made with magic, so many tangs at once._   
  
He's still gazing at you from behind. Slowly, he lifts a hand, laying it on your shoulder in what you think should be a comforting gesture.   
  
_Hands on your skin._   
  
It lingers there for the longest time, it seems. Every second is a new touch, and it takes everything from you not to flinch or to hold your breath. His hand warms your skin, but freezes your soul, for a few harsh moments. Then you stand, turning to him, and he lets his hand fall to his side.   
  
"What's wrong?"   
  
His expression, you see, is sincerely worried. You don't know why. You expected him, perhaps, to be angry -- or pissed off, at least. He's used to your attention -- and he thrives on it, having parents who give him all he wants, but not always what he needs. What he needs is someone to really care: by ignoring him, you've taken it away, and you would understand if he were spouting fire right now. But he isn't, and so you're at a loss for words.   
  
"Harry?"   
  
You watch his lips form your name, his tongue lingering on the _r._ His lips are thin, but not pressed, and extremely tempting. If only...   
  
You remember, this time, not hands, but a mouth trailing where they used to be. Lips and a talented, unwelcome tongue, down your neck, down your chest, down...   
  
You shudder, and he must have seen it. He takes your hand gently, and you don't notice very much, no because that mouth -- that mouth is still all over you, like water, or warmth, like joy or sorrow. It is nothing, yet everything like them: if only you could _forget_, if only you could even _try_, but it's so much a part of you now that--   
  
"Tell me what's wrong. Why are you -- why don't you want to talk to me?"   
  
You can hear his usually steady voice waver.   
  
You thought, when you went to meet him after the Slytherin-Ravenclaw game, that he would -- that he would be your comfort, your strength. And that he would take care of you and make it all right. But he needed his own solace: it was not for him to give. So you held your tongue, and somehow, in between then and now, you decided that your demons are for you to fight, not for him. You don't want to bother him, what with schoolwork and the future hovering imminently over you two already. And he's suffering the loss of a victory, and his father...   
  
His father.   
  
You shiver as you think of him, still loose, still having the Ministry convinced it wasn't him in the mask, no, that Potter boy must have been mistake. With the Dementors all gone and not enough employees to guard all the cells, they'd let him out of Azkaban willingly after another donation to St. Mungo's. Draco obeys him, but not in his head, where he has better plans for himself than bowing down to the enemy of the wizarding world. He dreams of starting a large potions company, but if his father refuses to help him with the capital, applying at Gringott's would be a good idea. Knowing Lucius Malfoy, any son of his refusing to become a Death Eater would likely suffer the consequences.   
  
Draco knows this, but he isn't scared. He thinks his dad incapable of doing anything _too_ bad to his own son. He thinks he has nothing to lose.   
  
_You **always** have something to lose,_ you want to tell him. And it's true: people -- wizards and Muggles alike -- tend to take what they have for granted, not knowing their worth until it's too late.   
  
You know his father, and you know that Draco will have so much more to worry about in the coming months. And you don't want it to include you.   
  
You let go of his hand, afraid that the truth is seeping from your skin into his.   
  
"There's nothing wrong, I was just... giving you time. You've never lost--"   
  
"But it has nothing to do with that," he retorts, not angrily or even insolently. Instead, as if he's speaking to a child, willing him to understand that _he_ would understand, whatever it is that implores to be told. "Something happened."   
  
From the deliberate upward tilt of his chin, you can tell that it's only a guess. But a damn good one, of course. For a moment, you wonder what you could say to possibly sound convincing enough for him to let it go: to believe that it was about a Quidditch match and nothing else.   
  
"What do you mean?" Innocently.   
  
"You know what I mean, and I'd like _you_ to tell me."   
  
"There's nothing to--"   
  
"Tell me, or we're never snogging again."   
  
You blink at that. It didn't even occurred to you that... well... you haven't thought of any kissing -- _proper_ kissing, at least -- since the last Saturday, the day life changed. You haven't thought of touching Draco, even -- or anyone else. All ideas of physical contact disappeared that day: all except the memories that just couldn't stop coming back.   
  
"Let's see how well you can resist," you reply in what you hope to be a teasing manner. He mustn't notice. You can't let him.   
  
He searches your eyes so earnestly that you think he might even _know:_ it's the way Dumbledore looked at you, especially before you finished quite a superior level of Occlumency. A century passes before he says, and in a more enthusiastic tone of voice: "Hogsmeade weekend on Saturday. Would you come with me?"   
  
"Wha...? But we've never..." He's never asked you out before: only some of the Gryffindors know he's your boyfriend, and the Slytherins would throttle you both if ever they find out.   
  
"There's Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, which is on a side road. If not, there's the Hog's Head... and we could always pretend we're just dueling." He shrugs nonchalantly. You nearly chuckle -- Madam Puddifoot's frilly decor would hardly seem like a good place for two male seventh years to go out on a date -- but he's ostensibly serious, and you're pressed for an answer.   
  
"Er, sure. I'll tell Ron and Hermione right away."   
  
"Great."   
  
You smile with your mouth closed.   
  
He frowns.   
  
"I know you don't want to tell me what -- whatever happened. But stop avoiding me, all right? I won't force you to tell me, but just... I don't know. I hope you don't keep it to yourself forever."   
  
Another denial is about to burst forth from your lips; but simply, you nod. You can't lie to him for that long, but at least he knows -- he understands -- that some secrets just can't be divulged. Not right away.   
  
"I'm worried about you, Harry," he admits. He bites his lower lip as he waits for an answer.   
  
"Don't," you say. "I'm okay."   
  
He nods slowly, and the conversation is over. Before he walks out the door, he takes your wrist, about to pull you to him and probably to press his lips to yours; but he only gives you a one-armed hug, as if he can feel what you're afraid of. 

~~~ 

**Author's Note**   
Thanks to everyone who's given me feedback. I do appreciate it. Also, if you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me. 


	3. Questions

**Three: Questions**

**_Draco._**   
  
There are bruises on his wrists and a hickey on his neck.   
  
Everything seems quiet as you go down to the Slytherin common room. There are students walking around, discussing homework, gossiping about couples, making a complete ruckus. It's as if you don't hear any of them: there's only you and the gloomy sky out the window, with autumn leaves skittering about its surface as if almost completely overcome.   
  
While he's been avoiding you, he's been seeing someone else, is that it? No, you think, it's more than that. _Screwing_ is a more appropriate term. Or perhaps _getting_ screwed, considering those bruises, made obviously by steel instead of cloth. Handcuffs: the Muggle way.   
  
You've never tried _that_ before. Nor anything of that sort -- hell, you haven't even really _slept_ with him, and that was okay until now, until he began going around sleeping with _others._   
  
When you grabbed his wrist just moments ago, you thought you would feel -- know -- what happened, who it was, _why._ Why was what you most wanted to know (and it still is) when you tried to discover the secrets beyond his skin, those bruises you hadn't seen before. It was only fortunate -- or wasn't it? -- that you went to his dorm without arranging a meeting, catching him in a sweater and none of those black robes. Catching his wrists. His neck. That neck, which you have never bitten, yes, that neck he offered to whoever it was who left the glaring imprint.   
  
Was it a him or a her? You begin to wonder, and you realize that either way, it hurts. It already does, and like hell, like shattered glass and fiery metal.   
  
You didn't find out why, and instead of asking, you gave him a hug: you had no strength for anything more, and your soul was melting inside: then you left without another word.   
  
You mutter the password and the slab of stone opens to reveal an empty, quiet room. You take a seat, looking around for lack of anything to do: the common room has only a small glass window high up for owl post, none else -- and that provides you some comfort, though you know not how. For an hour, you fiddle with your robes, pick up a book, fasten back your tie, unfasten it again... You have things to think of, homework to do and owls to send, but when your mind isn't completely blank, you think of Harry shackled down on a bed with someone else over him. And you wonder if he regrets it as much as you hope he does.   
  
*   
  
You're surprised when Preston, your eagle owl, hoots noisily outside and interrupts your meaningless reverie. You quickly pull the latch and open the window, and he brings you a rolled-up piece of parchment. You open it to see that your father has sent you a letter.   
  
You read it with detachment, not really taking in the words until the third paragraph, where he says, almost bluntly, that you mother is sick and stuck in bed.   
  
You skim the rest of the letter, all useless information. You notice that your dad doesn't mention what kind of sickness it is. You write a response, asking him this and how she's coping and to tell her you miss her. And for a moment, you want to tell him about Harry, and what to do, and has he ever been cheated on?   
  
But he doesn't know about Harry in the first place, and he would never understand. Harry's the only one you can tell your problems to -- and now he's the problem, somehow, which leaves you with no one, really.   
  
A heavy feeling settles over you when you mail your reply. Outside, all color has seemed to disappear. The sun must be setting, but you can't see any color: there is only gray.   
  
And quite fittingly so. 

~~~ 

**_Harry._**   
  
When you awake the next morning with no memory of your dreams, you rub the bruises on your hips -- they hurt the most, out of all of them -- and worry. You guess you should be happy they didn't come, but it scares you... like encouragements before Potions exams, or waiting for bad news.   
  
As you get out of bed, rubbing your eyes, the image of Draco flits into your mind. It doesn't need to be called: it's the most natural thought you've ever known: and it reminds you suddenly of yesterday afternoon, staring out the window with a schoolbook on your lap, seeing him arrive and greet and ask and _care._ He was worried, he admitted; but you're worried about him too, of what he would do or feel--   
  
"No," you mumble, heading to the bathroom. You wish there were someone you could tell -- a parent, an older brother, some one old enough to _bear_ it... You find yourself thinking of your godfather: Sirius, beyond the veil and far, far away. It's amazing and terrible at the same time, how death is so permanent on earth, yet so unreal in mind and heart.   
  
"No," you repeat to yourself, wishing Sirius were with you.   
  
*   
  
Potions is still your most hated subject: if anything, you loathe it even further. You find things easier to hate now, and you allow yourself this: it's the only privilege that you have anymore. You walk into the dungeons with Hermione and take a seat immediately at your table lest you be marked late. (Ron passed his Potions O.W.L. -- barely -- but he gave it up when he decided he'd work at the Ministry as an Obliviator or, better yet, an Unspeakable, which didn't need too much Potions knowledge, according to what everyone had heard.)   
  
You spot Draco at the other side of the room, and you lift your arm in an inconspicuous wave to acknowledge him. His lips twitch ever so slightly -- to keep Pansy and Blaise clueless as they ever were, no doubt. They've been flanking him in Potions like sycophants ever since Crabbe and Goyle dropped the class. Now they shoot you menacing glances, and you turn your head away: happy that, at least, you're officially talking to Draco again. If it helps, or if not, you don't know -- but it feels better. Like teenage levity managing to seep into you despite all that block it.   
  
Hermione, who's accepted Draco far better than anyone else you've told, takes one look at you, then at him, and nods once. _So you're back together,_ her gesture seems to tell you.   
  
She's smart, but then again, you don't know if what she knows is true. 

~~~ 

**_Draco._**   
  
"Today we're going to learn Veritaserum," Snape says, entering the classroom with a swish of his cloak and a whiff of that sharp, woodsy, dewy perfume he's been wearing lately. "We will spend the first period discussing the ingredients new to you and their characteristics, and the second to start making it. Mr. Longbottom, could you tell me the uses of firedrake's hair in..."   
  
Thus the class begins.   
  
Harry's listening to Snape again. It's strange to see his eyebrows knitted as he scribbles almost as furiously as Granger, struggling to catch up with the information being spewed out, not looking once up at Snape as if terrified of missing a few words. He's never been this attentive in Potions since... never, really. Except maybe yesterday, but all the same: it's another one of those things he's taken to doing recently, perhaps in line with the cheating.   
  
You sigh quietly as you turn back to your own piece of parchment. It's glaringly empty: whereas Harry is faithfully taking down every word Snape says, you can't manage to record a single one. And you don't understand what he's talking about, either. You're making Veritaserum, and that's about all you've learned in the class as of yet.   
  
Pansy is sitting beside you, writing notes at intervals. You know she's thinking about what's wrong with you today; she's like your mother, after all: when they worry about you, they avoid looking at you until they can talk to you in private about what's going on. Pansy is waiting, no doubt -- and you're ready to make a run for it after class.   
  
Speaking of Mother. You lean back, thoughts drifting completely away from the subject matter as you remember your father's letter. You haven't received a reply (you will, later today, probably), and you haven't really thought about it again until now. Mother sick. She's never been sick enough to stay in bed, as far as you can remember. She's had the occasional cold, nothing that couldn't be cured with a potion within three days or less. And that nosebleed when she blew her nose too roughly, and on a sweltering summer afternoon besides. There hasn't been anything else, not even a fever. You suppose you should be worried, and maybe you are already. But Mother -- or Father, for that matter -- doesn't concern you as much as, say, Harry. (Or, perhaps, only Harry. That seems truer.) They don't really care about you as their son; they only desire and live for power, with you as a mere adjunct. Maybe falling ill would be good for her, after all. Shrink her ego a bit. Harry would like that.   
  
You think you're getting too in over your head for him. You never cared about it until now, until those bruises...   
  
You straighten up in your seat, looking at Snape and forcing yourself to listen.   
  
*   
  
After Arithmancy, you tap Granger gently on the shoulder. Your pride is shrinking every moment, and you don't like it. But it seems, right now, that you have no choice. She whirls to face you: she doesn't know whether to smile or frown, so she keeps a neutral expression, saying, "Yes?"   
  
"I need to -- I _want_ to -- talk to you. About Harry."   
  
"Oh... all right," she responds. She is silent as you walk through the hall, entering an empty corridor. You very well know, in fact, that she's wondering what spurred you to shove your pride aside enough to speak with her. You know she still hates you -- there is no way, after all, to forget years of gabbing -- but with that hate, there's something resembling respect between the both of you, although it hardly shows.   
  
"Granger," you begin. "He didn't come to the match last weekend, remember?"   
  
"Yes, I remember," she responds curtly.   
  
"Do you know where he went?"   
  
She scrunches up her forehead, trying to recall. "Hmm, he went off to get parchment in the seventh floor stock room right before the match started, because he was running out. He said he'd join us shortly, but he never came." She shrugs. "Ron said he was probably watching from somewhere else, so I didn't go look for him... but when we came back, he was in his dorm, and he said he hadn't been feeling okay..."   
  
"Bastard," you cut in under your breath. It comes out of your mouth before you can think. She hears it, loud and clear, because she says,   
  
"Wha...? What do you--"   
  
"He's been seeing someone else."   
  
Silence engulfs you both in thick, uncomfortable currents, and yes. All hope before this conversation, gone.   
  
When she finally breaks the quiet, your voice is sharper than usual, and it's quavering the slightest bit. "No. Harry's not like that. Harry--"   
  
"Everything points to--"   
  
"You've only been with him for a few months, Malfoy, and I've known him for years! He likes you, and he would never do such a thing. You can trust him. Maybe he just needs time, and space, and--"   
  
"He's been seeing someone else." This time, you say it firmly: aggressively, even. You remember the bite, and the bruises, and they swirl around in your mind and sting you like bitter winds. And _she,_ defending him like this, isn't extenuating the situation one bit. If anything, she's making it worse by emphasizing trust -- your trust, damn it, the trust he threw away like a holey old sweater.   
  
"Fuck," you mutter, turning abruptly around. You decide you aren't telling her anything else. She doesn't need to know, does she? This is between you and him. And whoever it was he went to when he needed _time_ and _space._ Damn it.   
  
You are silent as you walk away, her stare burning into your back. She's spewing out angrily now, about accusing him with no confirmation and what proof do you have anyway, but what does she know? You _have_ proof, and she's just confirmed everything. You tune her voice out. You don't care anymore. All you can feel is anger and hate, and there's no room for anything else. You know she's mad and confused, and that she needs to _know--_   
  
But so do you. God, so do you. 

~~~ 

**Author's Note**   
Next chapter? Hogsmeade revelations. And that's all I'm going to say. If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeone@yahoo.com) or join my mailing list. Thanks for all the reviews. XD 


	4. Hogsmeade

**Four: Hogsmeade**

**_Draco._**   
  
Hogwarts is up and abuzz at breakfast the following morning, with the subject of talk being the Hogsmeade visit. The sky above is a smooth periwinkle with a few clouds dotting the surface: a pleasant difference, you note, from the dreary weather of the past few days. Harry is laughing with his friends at the Gryffindor table when you strut in. Almost immediately, he looks your direction and sends you a smile, as if sensing your presence. It's weird how he can do that. Maybe one of the powers You-Know-Who left him or something.   
  
You raise your eyebrows -- only slightly, of course, who knows what the Slytherins would do if they found out -- and sit down to eat. Preston arrives not a minute later, landing on your shoulder and holding out a scroll of parchment. It's from your father: hurriedly written, as you can see thin trails of ink from word to word. _Your mother will recover in two weeks. No need to worry. It's just common wizard fever._   
  
'Common wizard fever,' for your healthy mother, would really just need less than a week to cure. You're not being told _something,_ and you know this for sure. But you don't know what should possibly be kept secret. Strange what's happened the past week, your parents and Harry keeping things from you--   
  
Which reminds you.   
  
Earlier this morning, you sent Harry an owl telling him to meet you in the Charms classroom after breakfast. So you eat and wait. When the time comes, you rise from the table and see him doing the same across the room. The Slytherins don't ask when you excuse yourself. They're deep in conversation and couldn't really care less.   
  
You fall into step with Harry in the corridor, but you don't speak until you enter the empty classroom, closing the door behind you.   
  
"So, hey. What time are we going?" he asks. His eyes are a startling green behind his glasses. It amazes you how, after years of enmity and months of passion, they still surprise you. For a moment you forget that this is not the brave, loyal, trustworthy Harry (or Potter) you used to know. That this is him hiding beneath deceit and dishonesty for the first time since you first met him.   
  
"I was thinking late in the afternoon. Like six, maybe? That way it'll be more like a date than an outing, and there'd be fewer students, since, you know, only serious couples really take advantage of the ten-o'-clock curfew. You all right with that?"   
  
"Yeah, sure." You don't understand what the pinkish tinge on his cheeks is all about: is he glad you think you're serious with him, or is he _embarrassed_ that you are? Is it guilt? you wonder.   
  
He continues, "Ron and Hermione are going out at six too, you know. It doesn't mean--"   
  
"Weasley and Granger have more sexual tension between them than all the couples in Gryffindor -- since Hogwarts started. Those two are so deep in denial that I'd _kill_ myself if I had to match them up. I just wouldn't have the patience."   
  
"No, you wouldn't, would you." The corners of his lips curl up to form an amused smile.   
  
"Anyway. I'll meet you five-thirty later, at the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor. Bring your Cloak, all right? And tell those two you might be back late. They'd probably forget all romance worrying about you, for all I know..."   
  
"But why don't we just get there the normal way like everyone else?" His expression is curious and too innocent for his own good. You want to hit yourself for finding it somewhat... charming.   
  
"I have plans. You'll see."   
  
His eyes are questioning you still, but you leave with an enigmatic smirk, rumpling his hair. 

**_Harry._**   
  
"We, Harry," Draco announces, "are having dinner."   
  
The High Street sidewalk is still bustling: there are mostly couples now, out on the dates and romantic escapades that usually begin about this time on the rare Hogsmeade trips. You are watching the crowds head back to school -- and the couples come in -- from a narrow alley in between two food shops. You and he are under the Cloak, pressed up against each other by the hips and shoulders. He's so close and warm that it almost reminds you of -- well, it _does_ remind you of...   
  
"We'd better keep the Cloak, we might literally run into someone and they might find it suspicious... I'll just go ahead and you follow, all right?"   
  
Making sure no one's looking into the alleyway, you slide the Cloak off you both and shove it as neatly as possible (which isn't neat at all) into your bag. Draco nods once; then he inconspicuously slips out to the street. You wait for him to reach a pursuable distance before you set out to follow him. It feels strange and stupid, not being able to walk alongside him while lovebirds all around are holding hands and sharing saccharine laughter. You hope your time will come, someday.   
  
He turns at a side street. There are restaurants and a few stores on both sides, and a small, three-story hotel in the middle. _The Bophurt,_ it says in sparkling gold and silver dust on the front of the building. You follow him to the far end of the street, and the first thing you see is a beautiful fountain in a cobblestone square. Okay, so he wasn't serious about Madam Puddifoot's. But then, that place is a coffee shop, and you're out for dinner.   
  
The most expensive dinner Hogsmeade can offer, apparently, because when you pull back the ornate copper handle of one of the glass doors, the air that hits your face and the sight before your eyes is celestial, otherworldly, and elegant. It looks like a large hall, with platforms and low stair steps and intricately carved balustrades. Darkness surrounds the room, but each small round table has its own light floating above it: a cluster of fluttering blue fairies, sprinkling dust at each other, their laughter a soft melody. The ceiling is a permanent replica of the night sky; there are a few diaphanous clouds, and there are stars twinkling softly, dotting the black satin surface. A beautiful blond witch is on the high, spotlighted platform at the very center of the hall. She's playing the piano and singing a soulful, romantic tune.   
  
Draco clears his throat, and you see him waiting for you by a maitre d'.   
  
"Welcome to the Starlit Hall -- follow me, sirs," the latter says stiffly, but his eyes are twinkling like Dumbledore's before he turns away and walks.   
  
"This place is amazing. Look at those lamps, they look like concert glow sticks."   
  
"What are concert glows? What do sticks have to do with them?"   
  
"In Muggle concerts, the audience usually has these sticks -- they look like wands a bit, but they're plastic and more flimsy..." You proceed to explain as you're taken to a table in a secluded corner far from the entrance. A waiter soon comes and pours a bottle of wine -- a pricey wizard brew that tastes like champagne and sherry and -- for some reason -- strawberries, at the same time. The flavors merge naturally, which you never thought possible. The magical world presents many surprises indeed.   
  
The dim light illuminates Draco's hair and eyelashes, leaving shadows on his cheekbones. He looks breathtaking   
  
"Isn't this -- well you know, it looks like--" You're about to say 'too much', when he interrupts you with a benign smile:   
  
"It _is_ beautiful, isn't it? But wait till you taste the food."   
  
"Oh, you've been here before?"   
  
"With my Mum and Dad when I was nine or ten. It was their fourteenth anniversary, I remember, and they brought me along because I was being whiny."   
  
"Yeah, I can imagine."   
  
"And I kept asking to be taken back, but they said this place was for couples... and it wasn't like I could've come up to you in fourth year and asked you to go out with me--"   
  
"You could've, I started liking you then, too--"   
  
"But I didn't know. So I blamed it on hormones instead. Then you had to start going out with that Cho girl and make me jealous, and she had to jump you last year even after you were over, and I couldn't take it anymore."   
  
"You cornered me and murdered my mouth."   
  
"A favor which you enjoyed and thus returned. If you want to say it that crudely..."   
  
"There's no better way to say it."   
  
He smirks wryly.   
  
You forget who you are for the rest of dinner as you relive what few memories you have together at six months: the initial trysts, divulgence to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, embarrassing and near-discovery moments, summer lettering... The food is indeed unbelievably good, the music soothing, the ambience calm and romantic; but you find the most enjoyment in the company. He makes you feel like yourself again, as you were only weeks ago. It's weird. Everything's changed so suddenly for you, but he's still there: something to fall back to, like a comfortable home.   
  
"Where are we going?" you ask subtly as you walk a bit behind him away from the fountain. The sun has set by now, and the lamps lined along the street -- as well as the outdoor lights of the establishments -- have been charmed on. You've never been in Hogsmeade at night, and it's beautiful. Either that, or his presence is making things look better than they really do.   
  
"There," he replies, tilting his head toward the Bophurt.   
  
"Wha -- wait, we're going..." You follow him down the street and through the doors of the hotel. Inside, it looks as expensive as the Starlit Hall, or perhaps even more. You can't believe a place as grand as this is inside Hogsmeade.   
  
"I have reservations," he informs you, heading straight for the -- Merlin, is that _glass?_ -- staircase.   
  
"Er, Draco." You freeze on the spot for a while, so you have to run to catch up with him, your heart beginning to beat rapidly as you realize what his plans are. And it's not excitement. It's apprehension. He wants to do it with you. Now.   
  
You're quiet as you walk beside him down the third floor hall, stopping at door 305. It takes him forever to push the key into the lock and turn it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wish it doesn't work. But it does, and soon the door is open and he's inside and beckoning with his eyes for you to follow.   
  
You step in.   
  
The door closes with a click behind you.   
  
The room is delightful: the walls and furniture are all in creamy, peaceful tones; there's a king-sized bed at the very center, covered with a sable bedspread, whose headboard is made of solid brass; a floor-to-ceiling window occupies the entire wall opposite the door; between the window and the bed are a table and two maple chairs.   
  
You're drawn to the window right away: it presents you with a stunning high view of nighttime Hogsmeade. There are lights sprinkled over the landscape, fewer than a city's, but more magical than you deemed before. From here they look like small prickles of flame, so many of them. Hogsmeade looks bigger than the village you believed it to be.   
  
"It's a great view," you tell him, not knowing what he's doing all of this for. Except -- well, if you can consider what he's planning... "Thanks. For dinner, you know, and... everything."   
  
"Anytime." He smiles.   
  
"So, what're you -- I mean -- so this is why we were gonna be out late?"   
  
"Yes, about that."   
  
He moves closer to you, taking your wrist like he did that cold Thursday. You like the way his thumb and forefinger curl around the bony flesh and join in the middle; the way his palm is soothingly warm against your skin. And the way it doesn't bring back memories, doesn't make you want to pull back and escape, because _he_ never touched your wrist, never even held it, because it was held, instead, by cold, bruising metal.   
  
"I wanted to wake up beside you, that's all. We don't have to do anything if you don't want to; but remember that one time you said sleeping with me -- literally -- would be great? Well, so I got this place for the night, and..." he shrugs.   
  
"Wow, that's... wow." That's all you can say because you can't, in fact, remember. And you want to kick yourself for it. It's not that it was that long a time ago; maybe it's that you're in a different world now, and there's no way you can undo what has changed.   
  
Still, you can pretend.   
  
He pulls you close to him, his arms slithering around your trunk, and you do the same. You pretend all you can that it doesn't bother you, when your insides are burning. You remember the same arms and the same hands and -- _no,_ you try to tell yourself frantically, _this is not **him.**_   
  
Draco captures your lips in his, and you want to run. Get those arms off you, push those lips away. He feels the same, he feels like _him_ a week ago; there is no difference. You want to stop--   
  
But you can't move. Suddenly, it's hard even to breathe. 

**_Draco._**   
  
He is rigid at first, as if he doesn't want this. You think you know why, and that anger which you worked so hard to control begins to come again. Perhaps it's even one of the reasons you're doing this, but not the most important one.   
  
You just want to know if he still wants to be with you.   
  
You kiss him more forcefully than you're used to. He doesn't kiss back. He just stands there, his arms around you but frozen in place, merely fulfilling a routine obligation. When you pull away to breathe, you see that his eyes are closed. You don't know what to make of it.   
  
You kiss him once more, and this time he returns the gesture, if only slightly. You hold him tighter. One of his hands runs slowly -- hesitantly -- up your back, to your hair. You leave a trail down with your lips to his neck -- the side opposite the one with the nearly-gone bite mark, you only subconsciously remember -- and kiss and taste the skin. He is salty and sweet like he has always been. You rub up against him, a hand on the small of his back pushing him close, and you start grinding, and you can no longer think. You want him. You want him more than anything -- never mind the cheating -- he's all your body desires.   
  
You push in your knee to part his legs as you lower him to the bed. Your arousal is quite obviously -- painfully -- pressed up against his thigh. He's opened his eyes; you see they are wide and surprised and innocent, as if you haven't gone this far before.   
  
You _have_ gone this far, but you've always stopped in the middle of it, before anything really happens. Maybe this time, you won't.   
  
Maybe the reason will be guilt. Ha.   
  
You begin to unbutton his shirt, kissing down his chest as you do so. You can feel his quick heartbeat, his chest rising and falling with every shallow breath. You don't -- _can't_ take time to think. He appears to enjoy what you're doing, and so, you don't stop. You lick every visible inch of smooth, lightly tanned skin. His breath hitches when you reach his abdomen; you smile despite yourself. He likes it.   
  
You're pushing his shirt off his shoulders when he says, almost quietly, "Stop, Draco, stop--" and he pulls away from you slowly, moving up the bed and leaning against the headboard.   
  
You don't know what to say for a second -- he's stopped you again, and it frustrates you that you keep on waiting because, damn it, you can't help it, you're in love with him -- and then you notice what you should have noticed (or should have _not_) many moments ago. It is what makes this time different from all the others.   
  
"God," you whisper, loudly enough for him to hear. "You're not even -- you're not..."   
  
You don't continue, because you're looking at it -- _lack_ of it, really -- and of course, he already knows.   
  
You stand and move backward, away from the bed, away from him. A long silence follows. You look down at the floor because if you keep your eyes on him, you might do something rash like punch him or shout or cry. Right now you want to do all of them at the same time.   
  
Finally, you ask, "What did I do wrong?"   
  
"It's not you," he says softly, and from the rustle of fabric you know he's buttoning his shirt back up.   
  
Of course. You knew that. Truly, who wouldn't? After everything...   
  
"Who is it, then?" You keep your voice leveled, even though you're losing your temper and your head is beginning to throb.   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
Now you really want to yell. You look up at him, your gaze narrowed and unwavering. You don't expect to see him wearing a genuinely unknowing expression; you don't expect to see him with his arms around his knees, small and fragile against the elegant headboard, like a little boy.   
  
But he is. You're unsure when you answer, but still aggressively: "Who've you been sleeping around with lately? To tell you the truth I wouldn't've know it was going on if you didn't suddenly act so different. Or maybe it was only that one time? Was that it, Harry?" You spit out his name like poison; you think you should have called him Potter, if only you didn't want to forget the years he wasn't with you.   
  
"I wasn't -- I never--"   
  
He's panicking. You can tell from his voice.   
  
"I saw your neck. I saw your _wrists,_ damn it, and Merlin knows... what you let him do to you... I could wait for you, Harry, but if only you let it _mean_ something!"   
  
You're enraged as you look out the window at Hogsmeade, droplets of firelight and a few townsfolk walking around enjoying the peaceful evening. It wasn't supposed to be this way, you realize. You were supposed to enjoy this, whether you made love to or simply slept next to him. It was supposed to be one of those moments...   
  
"I didn't let him do anything," he says, his tone unrecognizable. He's admitting he did _something_, so this is going somewhere. What you don't know is whether or not you want to go there.   
  
"Oh, so you did it yourself? Handcuffed yourself to your bed, huh?"   
  
"No."   
  
"So what happened?" You walk across the room toward the window. You lean against the small table, still looking at him, tired of all this. "I sure as hell have a right to know, don't you think? You told me you were a virgin."   
  
"I was."   
  
"So you went to this guy and slept with him while you were with me?" you say bitterly. He's looking at a spot below your shoulder -- looking right through it, really, at nowhere -- but you can see his eyes are darkening, the whites fading to pink and shining. So this is what he looks like when he's about to cry. "Come on, Harry, answer me. Did it feel good, making out with someone else? So much better than me, huh? Did it feel good under him? Tied to your bed while you allowed him to fuck your brains out? For the first fucking time? Something I couldn't give, of course, because you wouldn't let me. You wouldn't goddamn let me. I'd give you all I have if could, and you -- you cheating bastard -- you--"   
  
You stop, because tears have made their way down his cheeks. You want to kiss them away, but at the same time keep on going: what's a few tears? He deserves them more than anything, and you're _supposed_ to make people cry, you're Draco Malfoy.   
  
Instead, you direct your gaze at the floor, as you wait for something. Anything.   
  
And, with his voice barely a whisper, as if allowing fate to decide whether you hear or not, he says, "I was raped."   
  
Silence.   
  
And then it sears through you like hellfire, as you realize.   
  
"No, Harry... no. No." You try to say it firmly, but your voice shakes. You want him to say it again. Even if the words came out clear and loud and ringing in your ears and throbbing in your head and twisting in your heart. You look into those eyes of hazy emerald, asking -- no, pleading -- him to take it back, or tell you you heard wrong, or...   
  
He looks away, his lips twisted in a bitter wince, his head tilted down, fresh tears falling from his face onto the bedspread.   
  
Guilty, and sorry, and sad, and angry, and weak, and worthless,   
  
You sink down on a chair and bury your head in your hands. There is really nothing else you can do.   
  
--tbc--   
  
If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeoneyahoo.com) or join my mailing list. I will also be posting updates in my LJ (galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD 


	5. After

**Five: After**

**_Draco._**   
  
You didn't expect to see him at breakfast today. You remember how, last night, when you went straight back to school a few minutes after he told you what happened, he was completely silent. He was silent even after his tears had run out, and after you walked with him to the Gryffindor tower. And so were you. At that juncture, there was nothing left to say, or perhaps no way to say it.   
  
But now he's with his friends, smiling (though strained) at their conversation. He's talking and moving and still alive. And you don't know why -- how -- he can manage it. You certainly cannot.   
  
You can't even accept it, to begin with. Somewhere inside, you're still waiting for him to take it all back, or for time to reverse, or _something._ You couldn't get a wink of sleep last night, just thinking about him: what happened to him, and how you accused him of something he didn't do instead of trying to help. When you could no longer think, you lay there the entire night with your mind empty and your eyes refusing to shut.   
  
He's coping better than you, it seems. And it doesn't feel good knowing that.   
  
"All right there, Drake?" Pansy nearly yells in your ear, breaking your reverie. Her voice is naturally too loud, but she doesn't make an effort to keep it down either. Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise turn their heads to look at you.   
  
You don't answer. Why waste the energy? It's all the same to Pansy anyway, she'd probably think--   
  
"Want to go bully Potter again?" she asks, focusing her eyes toward your line of sight. "Wipe that smile off his face?"   
  
"No... I bullied him just yesterday, and he might get desensitized." Which is true, to an extent. You look away from him and at Pansy, who is blinking as she stares back at you.   
  
"One of these other days, then." She goes back to her food.   
  
Yours has been barely touched, but you're not hungry. You push your plate away.   
  
"Can I have your eggs?" Crabbe's mouth is full of egg, in fact: and he spews some on the front of your robes. You flick the residue away quietly and nod. You want to see Harry again, for no reason in particular, but with your so-called friends hanging around you like this, and Pansy already having seen you, you don't want to risk it. So instead, you look at the teachers' table.   
  
Vector is chatting with Sinistra, Dumbledore with McGonagall, Flitwick with Lupin, who came back this year as the DADA teacher, and was gladly accepted by all but some Slytherins. The rest of them are busily eating, except for Snape, whose eyes are staring fixedly into space, his brow wrinkled. Probably thinking of another potion formula, or about how much he hates Lupin.   
  
No, wait. He isn't staring into space -- he's staring at the Gryffindor table.   
  
You shift your gaze to check, even though you already know.   
  
He's staring at Harry.   
  
When you glance back at Snape, he turns his head to look directly at _you._   
  
You fix your eyes down at the tabletop, what feels like fear tingling on your skin. 

**_Harry._**   
  
You go on a walk with him that afternoon by the edge of the lake farthest from the school. Cottony white clouds cover the sky above; the sun's light is dim, providing no warmth. Early November chills both your bones. He is pacing quietly at your right, hands in the pockets of his robes, each step calculated. He hasn't said anything after "Hi," and you begin to wonder if this silence is meant to be easy or uncomfortable.   
  
He clears his throat before you can guess at it. "So," he starts.   
  
"So."   
  
"It happened during the match, didn't it?"   
  
"What--"   
  
Oh. Great.   
  
He didn't ask you questions last night, and you were relieved and perhaps thankful that he didn't pry for information. You'd told him all he needed to know. You were assured, by the time he took you to the Fat Lady's portrait, that he wouldn't ask until you were ready to answer. But it was a false hope: he's always been concerned about everything that comes your way. Now you know he was just too stunned after you told him to begin.   
  
You want him to let it go; _you_ want to let it go.   
  
But you answer him anyway. "Yeah, it was about that time. It started a little before it, maybe. I was knocked out for a while; I couldn't tell." This, of course, is the truth. You couldn't -- you still can't -- tell how long it took before you awoke, before _he_ arrived, before you were raped, before your manacles released your wrists, yet still leaving you alone without your dignity. All you could think of was how you wanted time to fly by. And how it never obeyed.   
  
"What do you mean, it started?"   
  
"He handcuffed me to the bed, then cast some sort of spell to knock the wind out of me. I woke up and he came back. And it happened. I don't know how much time I lost." The truth.   
  
"Wait... in your common room?"   
  
"No, in a room on the seventh floor." The Room of Requirement, to be specific. Or the Come and Go Room -- so much more appropriate. Ha.   
  
"Harry, I hope you don't mind me asking -- who was he, anyway?"   
  
Your heart misses a beat for no good reason as you consider, for the briefest of moments, divulging the secret.   
  
"The thing is, I don't know. I was blindfolded. I couldn't see a thing."   
  
You're lying through your teeth, and not because _he_ made you promise not to tell anyone. You told Draco, after all. And you wish you hadn't, for the same reason you don't want to say anything else.   
  
You don't want him to share your grief and your sin and your filth, as you always knew that he would. He always has.   
  
If he finds out whoever did it, you're sure he would seek revenge. You don't want any trouble.   
  
"What -- but didn't he speak? Didn't you recognize the voice?"   
  
"Well, he spoke, but I was still disoriented from that spell. The only thing I discovered was that he was a man. That was it."   
  
"A man? An older man?"   
  
"Yes, I think. He was quite long." Pause. He stares at you. "I mean, his body was long, he was taller than me, that's what I meant."   
  
"Oh."   
  
You amble along on the grass, your eyes on the lake. The sky, in its crystal blue and pristine white glory, gazes up at you from the water. The wind forms ripples on the surface, cold and whistling in your ears, and you wrap your arms around yourself for more warmth. Draco sees this, and you're not surprised when he drapes his left arm over your shoulder, rubbing his hand on your forearm.   
  
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice sharp and solitary in the autumn cold.   
  
"There was nothing you could've done. I'm not blaming you for anything."   
  
"I accused you. I would've stopped him if I could, if I knew... but besides that, I blamed you too, for cheating on me, when you weren't -- well, you weren't doing anything wrong at all. I shouldn't have done that."   
  
"It's all right, Draco, I understand." You've been through years of antagonism, you remind yourself. You've overcome all of that, opening your minds enough to grow close to each other, to go beyond enmity and indifference and mere casual friendship. And you see it now, in the way he foregoes his pride and the way you willingly offer forgiveness, something that never would have happened years ago. That must mean, you think, that you can get through this as well. You find that you can trust him now, even after all he's done to you. And that is a comforting thought. 

**_Draco._**   
  
It soon gets too cold outside, and you suggest going back in. He nods right away, and you stroll back, still clutching him close. You don't care, at this moment, if anyone sees you. And no one probably will, seeing as only the desperate would be out in this growing wind. The desperate, and you and Harry. (Or maybe you _are_ desperate, too, and you just don't know it.)   
  
You spot Remus Lupin on the lawn. He's ostensibly on his way to that half giant Hagrid's hut, and he's carrying a sack of some squeaky, jumpy little creatures. You and Harry are about to hide behind the cabin, but too late: Lupin sees, and he blinks a couple of times. You resist the urge to pull apart from Harry. You don't think you should give the werewolf the satisfaction of _catching_ something. Sure, Harry's quite friendly with him, but he doesn't know about you. Hasn't until now, anyway.   
  
"Remus," Harry greets.   
  
Lupin saunters over to you both. "Harry," he says. Haha, he doesn't know how to act in front of you.... You shake your head inwardly. It's a wonder how evil you still are, even when everything's gone awry.   
  
"Professor." You smile an electric smile, and he looks at you like you're insane.   
  
"Um. Draco Malfoy." Harry throws his head casually your direction, although he seems a bit uneasy.   
  
"I know," Lupin replies, appearing confused still. "Harry, you haven't been around to see me lately. Is anything wrong?"   
  
"No, nothing's wrong." He swallows. He certainly doesn't look like nothing's wrong (in addition to the fact that it's a complete lie), but you keep quiet. "It's just -- I've been busy lately, and yesterday was Hogsmeade, so... I haven't had much time."   
  
"Ah. Well, if you're sure." He raises the sack. "I have to take these to Hagrid. Come by sometime, right?"   
  
"I will."   
  
Lupin disappears with his eyes still trained at you, no doubt curious as to what you're doing less than five meters from Harry. Really, if the man -- no, werewolf -- thinks you have a restraining order from the Ministry... by Merlin... Speaking of which, you look at Harry, whose eyes are following Lupin's retreating figure intently.   
  
"So. See him? Is he your psychiatrist?"   
  
It's a serious question, but Harry actually chuckles. "Psychiatrist? No, he meant see him and talk to him about stuff. We do that a lot, you know, but not the past three weeks. As I said, I've had no time. I kind of miss him, though."   
  
"You're gonna have to tell him about me, do you realize that?"   
  
"Yeah, of course. But he can keep a secret."   
  
"Good." You pause, noticing that Harry appears a bit worried despite what he just said. "What do you talk about, usually?"   
  
"Lots of things. The Order. School. Snape. Dumbledore. My friends." His eyes are fixed at nowhere as he walks. "Sirius."   
  
"So he _is_ a shrink," you joke. The corners of his lips twist up the slightest bit, so small that it hardly shows. He has long accepted his godfather's death, but rape is, in some ways, harder. It doesn't pass; it stays as long as you live, an eternal poison, a mark as permanent as his scar. You don't know that, because it wasn't you. You could believe that everything -- that _he_ -- can be healed. But maybe he knows better.   
  
You wonder if he'll always be this way: if his smile will always be but a difficult miniscule movement; if his laugh will always come in chuckles: a strained, forced obligation instead of _real._   
  
And you wonder who did it. Because you're going to make his life hell, if it's the last thing you do. 

**_Harry._**   
  
"...And so he writes she'll be fine in two weeks," he tells you at the Astronomy tower that evening after dinner. "Do you believe that? He's hiding something from me, I know it..."   
  
The both of you are seated in your juxtaposed chairs, facing the crackling fire. Your arms are close, but not touching. It's comfortable. At least, it would be, if the occasional shocks of ice down your spine stopped completely. You _know_ Draco isn't _him_, and that he wouldn't hurt you: but your body refuses to acknowledge the difference. Maybe, it can no longer easily tell. It insists on frightening you, and so you are frightened, even if you're wrapped under this blanket of warmth and oh-so-comfortable non-touch.   
  
You choose to ignore your fear and continue the conversation. "Your birthday presents."   
  
"What?" He sounds genuinely befuddled. "What do you mean?"   
  
"Your birthday. On the eighth -- that's six days away. I mean, your parents must be planning a surprise, right?"   
  
"Er," Draco answers lamely. It is obvious he has had much on his mind: not just because he's apparently forgotten about his coming birthday, but because of his tone: the way he says 'er' that sounds distracted and guilty at the same time.   
  
"You forgot your birthday was coming," you state.   
  
"Er. Well. I hardly think they're planning a surprise, though, because I always port to the Manor on my birthday anyway, to pick up presents and food. Remember that portkey I told you about?"   
  
"The ring you twist on your birthday so it can take you home?"   
  
"Anytime a week before and a week after my birthday, actually, yes."   
  
"So you can use it right now?"   
  
"Yes. I'd like to go earlier than the eighth -- tomorrow afternoon, maybe. I want to pay Mum a visit."   
  
"That's good," you say, ending the subject. The flames before you are an enchanting blend of red and orange, with blue and black tongues in the centers. They reach out to swathe you in calming heat. It hits you how much like home it feels to be back in this room again; and then it hits you that it's been only two weeks since you were last here. Time has walked slowly, and yet has left you behind, only to wonder where it has gone.   
  
He's quiet again, and you're afraid he's about to ask you another question about that happened that Saturday; but he glances at his watch and asks, "Do you want to go back?" His gaze is sincere, but sad. He's never asked this early before -- you used to talk for hours on end, sometimes even till the wee hours of the morning -- but you remind yourself that things aren't the same anymore. Even you aren't the same, and probably, so is he. He knows it's hard for you to stay here, alone with him for too long a time, lest it turn uncomfortable. And, you admit to yourself, it is. A little bit.   
  
"Okay."   
  
He takes you back to the Gryffindor tower: another new habit, you notice. You always used to part ways in a corridor off the Entrance Hall. You know he's trying to protect you: trying to make up for what he had no power over.   
  
Before you reach the portrait, he lays a hand on your shoulder. "Can you meet me tomorrow? At about eight -- I'll probably have dinner with my parents."   
  
"I'll be there."   
  
"Great."   
  
For the longest moment, he looks at you longingly, like he wants to touch you and to take you in his arms and never let go, but is too afraid that you're afraid of it. As if to decide the matter, he moves close and gives you a chaste kiss, so tender that when he steps back, you wonder if it was even there.   
  
Your eyes lock with his before you turn toward the common room. You walk away, storm clouds and an overcast sky all that you can see. 

**_Draco._**   
  
When Harry has stepped into the portrait hole, you turn back to go down to the Slytherin dungeons, eager to get some rest and thinking. There are no candles to illuminate this hallway, but shafts of dim moonlight. As a prefect, you're used to going on rounds late at night, but this darkness makes you nervous. You feel almost as if you're being watched.   
  
Your footsteps echo behind you as you walk. There is no other sound, until you hear the soft, almost inaudible rustle of cloth.   
  
"Who's there?" You look around you. All is calm, but oddly tense.   
  
A quick moment later, you hear footsteps coming toward you. You pull your wand out, ready for a spell; but after another rustle, from behind the shadows comes none other than Severus Snape.   
  
With his chin is held high, you almost miss the worry in his expression. Almost.   
  
"How is he?"   
  
"Who, Professor?"   
  
The left side of his lips twitches in what looks more like a grimace than a smile. "Potter, of course."   
  
"He's... all right." And why does he ask, pray tell?   
  
"Has he told you about anything... strange that's happened to him lately? Something disturbing, perhaps?"   
  
"No, not really," you reply without missing a beat. Lying isn't too hard when you're a Malfoy. When you're used to it, that is. Inside, though, you're starting to get scared. You know this is Snape, and no matter how much he hates Harry, he's never done anything to really harm him. But here he is, _speculating_ about what happened -- maybe even knowing about it firsthand. You remember he _was_ staring at Harry during breakfast. And at you.   
  
There's that same shiver crawling up your spine. You don't like being here with him, all alone.   
  
"If you say so," he says, squinting at you in that skeptical manner of his. "Go to sleep, Malfoy. You have a busy Monday ahead of you. Good night."   
  
He walks off, and that's when you realize:   
  
"Professor, wait! How--"   
  
But he's no longer there to respond. You blink to yourself as you go on your way, a single discovery turning your insides and making your heart beat twice as fast.   
  
He knows about you and Harry. 

---tbc---

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeone[at]yahoo[dot] com) or join my mailing list (groups[dot]yahoo[dot]com[slash]group[slash]essence[underscore]hp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	6. Secrets

**Six: Secrets**

**_Draco._**   
  
The usual hook pulls invisibly at your navel. The next thing you know, you are standing in your room at the Malfoy Manor, expensive carpet at your feet. The dust settles after your arrival: the house-elves don't clean your room until the day before you are expected to come. The air smells like home, though, and you breathe it in. The manor is a palace of hostilities, of gnarled statues, cold family paintings, and a constant echo of empty rooms, but you can go to your bedroom and sit down and you would always feel better.   
  
But moments later you know you have to do what you came for. You pull open the door to the corridor. It creaks the slightest bit, but the hall is deserted enough for the sound to echo. You slide in through the gap and close it behind you. The converging corridor of doors stares back at you, gaping as if in challenge. Businesslike, as are most things in this house. It is something you're used to by now. You walk, turn a corner, keep walking until you arrive at your parents' door. You knock softly on the smooth cold wood before you enter.   
  
Their large canopy bed, made of ivory posts and white sheets, lies in the middle of the dais in the north of the room, before the windows. The sun spills its afternoon rays in through the glass; they bathe the bed in yellow light, as well as your mother's face.   
  
Narcissa Malfoy is motionless.   
  
From the moment you spot her you know she is asleep, but the guess that she might be otherwise clenches at your heart and, for a moment or two, makes you panic. It feels like those dreams you sometimes have in the middle of the night, where the world is reduced to darkness and you are in the very middle of it, and suddenly, without even knowing where you are, you fall. And then you awaken with an irregular heartbeat and short breaths, much like the way you are breathing now, seeing your mother supine with both hands at her sides and her head tilted dead forward. Dead.   
  
You know she is asleep because her books of poetry are stacked on her nightstand and there is a vase of fresh flowers (narcissi, you note) beside them. She cannot be dead because if she were, she should be in a coffin and you should be in black singing funeral dirges with all the members of the family. She should be six feet under in the most prestigious cemetery you can afford. So, she is not dead.   
  
_But why,_ you ask yourself, _didn't she wake up when I opened the door?_ Their bedroom door is large, and one needs to heave it open instead of pushing it. It creaks more than any other door in the house. (Mother wanted to have all the doors fixed once, and Father replied, with a rare twinkle in his eye, "Creaking is the luxury of a Malfoy." No one ever brought it up again.) Mother is the most sensitive of them when asleep: a cricket could chirp outside their window and she would promptly wake up. You have no doubt she can rival Mad-Eye Moody in late night vigilance, which he prided himself upon back when he was teaching.   
  
"Mother," you whisper, walking over to her. You figure that since you're already here, you might as well pay her a proper, wide-awake visit. You sit on the bed beside her. She doesn't stir.   
  
"Mother," you say again, louder this time, impossible for her not to hear. She lies still, and you examine her face. It looks peacefully asleep and really quite healthy, not at all pale or ashen. Her curls are the same color of brilliant golden blond they always were. Her lips, which usually become chapped and dry during her rare bouts of sickness, look soft and... normal.   
  
"Mum, it's me," you sigh, and a voice says behind you,   
  
"Master Draco?"   
  
You turn your head to see a house-elf holding a feather duster in one hand and a rag in the other. "Tolstoy, how long has Mother been asleep?"   
  
"Today is the seventh day, Master Draco."   
  
You furrow your eyebrows, then shake your head upon realization: "I didn't mean how long she's been sick. I meant, how long has it been since she closed her eyes and has not opened them up to now?"   
  
"Today is the seventh day," the house-elf repeats. You roll your eyes at his incompetence (whose idea was it to hire this one, anyway?), but there is no time to insult him because the door creaks open quickly and your father strides in, a purposeful glint in his eyes. He smiles coldly down at you, gesturing with his hand for Tolstoy to go away. The elf disappears. Lucius moves closer, his long robes making him seem to glide across the floor.   
  
"Father," you greet, bowing your head slightly. "Tolstoy said..."   
  
"He's telling the truth, Draco. House-elves may be bird-brained, but they aren't forgetful. What are you doing here, may I ask? You're early. We haven't received any of your presents yet."   
  
"I wanted to pay Mother a visit. So she's been in a... coma? All this time?"   
  
"Coma is such a pedestrian term, Draco. And as you can see, your mother is as blooming and as beautiful as she always is. Why don't we call it a very deep sleep, instead?"   
  
"Father. You lied to me. You said she was sick--"   
  
"You shall not accuse me of lying or any such thing. Your mother is sick. She needs time to heal. She needs rest. I assure you, she will be fine in two weeks." He sounds frustrated at having to explain this to you, as if he has better things to do.   
  
"But... what is she sick of, exactly? And I don't think it's common wizard fever, Father, because if the mediwizard said that, he really should be deprived of his license."   
  
Lucius stares at you, gauging in his mind if this son of his is worthy of knowing the actual truth. You look into eyes that mirror yours, not allowing your gaze to falter. He sighs, defeated.   
  
"All right, Draco. It's not common wizard fever." Lucius looks down at Narcissa and shakes his head. "It's the Bedivere fever. It was discovered by Douglas Bedivere in the thirteenth century. He fainted suddenly one day; his family thought he was dead, but put him in bed just in case. Three weeks later he was awake and well. It's a rare illness that appears quite dangerous, Draco, so I understand your worry. But in the greater scheme of things, it really doesn't do much harm, except that your mother will be quite tired when she awakes, even if she has done nothing but lie down."   
  
"So she won't be awake in time for my birthday?"   
  
"Likely not, I'm sorry to say. The average sleeping time for all who have been struck by the sickness is twenty-two days. She collapsed two Saturdays ago -- do you remember, I had to leave your game early? Tolstoy had sent me an emergency owl. I didn't tell you why I left because I didn't want you to worry. Which reminds me..."   
  
"I'm more worried about my mum than the Quidditch Cup right now."   
  
"I understand. But I expect you to do better next time."   
  
"I will." You watch your sleeping beautifully alive mother lie unmoving beside you. Every year she greets you with a warm 'Happy Birthday,' and it's always something to look forward to, because on special days like that you can almost feel her love for you as a son and not just an heir, like you so often feel like in this family. It pains you to know that it won't happen this year, and right when you're turning into a full-fledged adult, too.   
  
"Stop worrying about her, Draco," your father advises. "Focus on your studies and Quidditch. You know how proud both of us will be when you beat that mudblood Granger to the top spot in your graduation year, and finally nail Potter to the ground." There is a smile in his eyes and you know that what he's expressing is not a hope, but a threat. Everything he has ever told you to do has a tacit accompanied 'or else,' and you have never liked it. But you nod agreeably, take one last glance at your mum, and say,   
  
"I think I'd better go, Father. I've homework to do."   
  
"Go. Come back here on Saturday. I'll order that carrot cake you like; you can share it with the Slytherins. Your presents will be ready by then, I'm certain."   
  
"All right." You twist your Malfoy ring around your finger. A second later, you disappear.   
  
"What did you say it was, again?" Pansy asks. Her tone is bored and uncooperative. You want to pull on your own hair with all your might because you thought it would be a good idea to ask her instead of Crabbe or Goyle to help you with research in the library, and are now discovering that it might not have been such a good idea after all. With one arm cradling a large book opened to its index, she blinks at you in an all too clueless manner, even though you've told her about twenty times this afternoon.   
  
"Be-di-vere fe-ver," you enunciate, hoping she can remember this time. Her eyes light up as if just recalling some long forgotten information, and she directs her attention back to the book with newfound determination. You roll your eyes, praying to the deities to help you.   
  
Not that you don't trust your father, of course. But if he had any reason to lie to you in the first place (common wizard fever was so obviously far from the truth), he might be lying to you now. And you hardly think it's a birthday surprise. In fact, the thought itself is enough to make you chuckle. Your parents hate surprises, especially your father. No, he must be planning something else, and you're going to get to the bottom of it. For now you have only the most vague ideas: world domination or, worse yet, your Marking ceremony. But if he's not lying, you promise yourself to let the issue go.   
  
An hour later, you and Pansy slam the last of the medical books down on the table and sigh in unison. Pansy, too exasperated to be angry with you for wasting her time, remarks: "Maybe they were having marriage problems, and he decided to kill her and _then_ preserve her so he could still tell people he was married. I mean--"   
  
"Pansy, I don't think my father's sick enough to keep sleeping beside a corpse."   
  
"Or sleeping _with,"_ she adds, and you shudder in disgust. "But really. Seems he just invented the thing."   
  
"No. He's too damn smart for that."   
  
"What are you looking for, then? If you know the illness is real?"   
  
You answer simply, "I'm looking for a loophole." 

**_Harry._**   
  
Dinner is the same miserable affair. Everyone seems all right enough, but for you it's so easy to feel sad these days. You're alone when you're with everybody, and even when you're with Draco, you swing between warmth and fear, because the intimacy you're expected to share with him seems too close to the intimacy that _he_ forced out of you. Nothing helps but sleep, and even that does not erase the event from the past, but temporarily erases the ways of recalling it. There is no consolation for anything: not your dead parents, not your dead godfather, not Cedric in his grave, not the prophecy that either you or Voldemort will be killed by the hand of the other. Not for rape. There is no consolation, but only moving forward, and this is what you're trying to do. It's hard: each step is another burden. You can move past death by living, but you cannot move past fear by closing your eyes.   
  
Draco is at his table. When you spot him you see that he has been waiting for you to do so. He nods his head downward in a slow arc, inviting you to meet him outside the Great Hall after eating. You don't know how you know it -- it's almost humorous, really -- but you nod and send him a small smile. Then Hermione tells you to stop playing with your food and start eating, and if only because Draco gave you that gesture, you obey her with no complaints.   
  
After dinner, you meet up with Draco in the nearest corridor and he suggests a game of Seeker-on-Seeker Quidditch. "It's a good evening for flying. A bit breezy, and there's still light out. I know I said we'd meet at eight, but I've got loads to tell you, and I have some homework to do after."   
  
"It sounds like a plan."   
  
You run up to your dorm while he runs down to his. Later you meet him at the Quidditch pitch, Firebolt slung comfortably on your shoulder. He is looking at the sky, seeming to marvel at the cool blue covered only by a few scattered clouds. The breeze dances through his hair, making it just a little untidy at the back. You comb your hand through it in greeting, and he smiles at you, holding up the Snitch. "Scared, Potter?"   
  
"You wish."   
  
He releases the golden ball, whose wings flutter immediately at the sight of freedom. The two of you wait for it to get far away before mounting your brooms and rising at the same time. And, floating in the air with the autumn wind teasing your cheeks, you ask him what he said he had to tell you.   
  
"I ported to the Manor," he begins, and tells you the story of how he found his mother in a deep barely-breathing sleep and how his father said it was a rare form of wizard fever. He also recalls how he and Pansy searched the library for information but failed to find any. According to him she suggested they had marriage problems, which he dismisses with a wave of the arm. "Those two have never had marriage problems. They're one entity. Besides, wizards have magical wedding contracts -- oh, didn't you know? -- so if ever he fatally hurts her on purpose, a curse will fall upon him or something like that."   
  
Draco admits that he doesn't know much about wizard marriage vows, but he knows something bad should be happening to his father right about now if he meant to put her in a deep sleep. Lucius didn't do it to hurt her, then, "but he must be planning _something_, and I'm doing anything I can to find out what it is."   
  
"What was the illness again? Bedivere fever, was it?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"It sounds like a myth."   
  
Draco shrugs. Then, because the Snitch is nowhere in sight, he flies some ways off and shouts, "Catch me if you can!" You fly after him right away, but he's gotten a good head start; every time you're close to tagging him he veers off in another direction and you miss again. Once he even makes a quick U-turn and sticks his tongue at you as he speeds by in a flurry of blurry color, making you want to reach him even more. Gradually you notice that you're moving upward and upward, where the wind surges more strongly through your hair and blows like freedom on your cheeks, where the red sun is at your fingertips, where you discover for the hundredth exhilarating time how flying can make you forget about school and death and rape, make you forget about everything but you and Draco and the sun and the paling colors of the sky.   
  
You spot the Snitch from the corner of your eye, somewhere at your right, and with a triumphant smile on your face you turn briskly in that direction and fly as fast as the Firebolt will allow. Soon you become aware of Draco following behind you, gaining so near you can almost feel him breathing on the back of your neck. You reach out your arm until you can feel the muscle stretch over your bones, and before you know it the Snitch is safely dying in your hand.   
  
"I won," you tell him, turning around and holding it up.   
  
"You didn't catch me," he says, and his hand settles warmly on the nape of your neck, and he kisses you.   
  
Initially, it feels good. His lips are soft and supple; they taste of the fresh pumpkin juice at dinnertime. His kiss is slow and languorous as if he wants you to feel every slide of his lips on yours, absorb every tinge of sweetness he has to offer, savor the way he cares about you. It's wonderful, and it strikes you how much you miss this.   
  
But when he gently slips his tongue into your mouth and it molds gently with yours, it feels more like an intrusion than a welcome closeness, and you remember _his_ tongue and _his_ lips, and for a moment your mind is frighteningly certain that it's him, it's him, it's him and you pull back and take a deep breath and look anywhere but in front of you.   
  
"Harry?"   
  
"We'd better get down," you say before speeding back to the ground. He silently follows. 

**_Draco._**   
  
"Let's both get started on our homework, then." He smiles a restless smile, one that makes you feel like he wants to get as far away from you as possible. His lips are still a gleaming red from the kiss, and you wish you could press yours to them, one last time. But you don't want to make him any more uncomfortable, and so you just nod in acquiescence at his suggestion.   
  
"I'll walk you," you say, but he shakes his head.   
  
"I'll manage. Don't worry about me, Draco."   
  
He hands you back the Snitch; you let your fingers linger on his for a while. He then steps back, slings his broom over his shoulder, and offers you a small wave of goodbye. He turns around, and his back seems to curve forward, defeated, as he walks away.   
  
And you feel defeated as well, as you walk down to the Slytherin dorms, knowing what you did wrong. It was just that he was acting so normally, so like the old Harry you always knew, that for that dangerous moment you forgot all about what happened and what the consequences of intimacy might be. You're only glad he didn't let go of his broom and fall from a hundred feet above. If he had, you would never forgive yourself.   
  
What is so unforgettable about rape? What makes it so hard to accept, to get past? You wish you knew, even though you don't want to be privy to a kind of suffering you know you could never fully let go of: suffering that will find you awake late at night with your shirt clinging to your back, suffering that will kill all romance and the sense of purpose which one needs to live. You have minions, not friends, and a family so austere it's like an elite business union. Harry matters more to you than anyone else at this moment. You wish you could help him. You wish you knew how.   
  
Professor Snape is walking from the common room. You meet him at the hallway.   
  
"Professor," you greet politely, "could I talk to you for a bit?"   
  
"What about?" he asks, his face a rock of no emotion.   
  
"About how you knew about... you know."   
  
"I didn't know I knew about 'you know'." At this reply you know that Snape couldn't have been the one who hurt Harry. It's simply too ridiculous to think so. Snape doesn't care about anyone but himself, Potions, and sarcasm.   
  
Time to cut to the chase. "How did you know about me and Harry, Professor?"   
  
Simply, "I heard two noisy Gryffindors gossiping about you two."   
  
You squint your eyes, trying to imitate his suspicious glare while still appearing respectful. "I know you know something about Harry that not many people do."   
  
"You know something more." He holds your gaze.   
  
If he's not going to give you any answers, might as well ask other questions. "Professor," you say loudly enough to inform him that you're changing the subject. "In the Quidditch game last last Saturday, did my father mention to you why he was leaving early?" Lucius and Snape were close friends in school, and they usually share news and pleasantries every time Lucius goes to Hogwarts for a visit.   
  
"No," Snape says in a guarded manner, obviously waiting for you to explain further.   
  
"He didn't say my mother was sick?"   
  
"He didn't say goodbye. I didn't even notice him leave, to tell you the truth. I..."   
  
"You what?"   
  
"I hope you mother's getting well."   
  
That was not what he was going to say. You choose to ignore this.   
  
You roll your eyes. "She's in a 'deep sleep,' if that's what you mean."   
  
Snape's features take on an actual concerned expression that you've never seen on him before. "A deep sleep?"   
  
"A _very_ deep sleep. It's a rare kind of fever, according to my dad."   
  
"Oh. Did he say anything else?"   
  
"Not really. Do you know anything about it?"   
  
"No."   
  
"It doesn't sound like you don't, Professor."   
  
"Mr. Malfoy, I think your Potions essay is waiting for you. Time for homework. Carry on. Your hair is ruffled, by the way -- did you know?"   
  
Snape, with the typical swish of his cloak, goes off. He knows what's really happened to your mother; you're sure of it. He probably knows your father's lies. And maybe he also knows more about you and Harry than he's letting on. But why is he wary of telling you anything?   
  
Curiouser and curiouser. 

--tbc--

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeone[at]yahoo[dot] com) or join my mailing list (groups[dot]yahoo[dot]com[slash]group[slash]essence[underscore]hp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	7. Information

**Seven: Information**

**_Harry._**   
  
You awaken the next morning peacefully enough, with the sun's rays creeping in through the bed curtains and Neville steadily snoring across the room. The room smells like donuts; you don't know why, but it's a wonderful way to wake. You stretch your arms above your head, stretch your legs, stretch your back as you review the classes for today and whether you've finished all the necessary assignments. But suddenly the memories of last night's sleep slither into your mind, and you remember that you dreamt of him, like you used to. Him and his hands and his tongue and his hips grinding you down--   
  
On the way to breakfast, with Ron and Hermione at your side, you think about your bad dreams and how they don't wake you in the middle of the night like they used to, but haunt you in the morning with frightening clarity. The dreams aren't created by your imagination; they're memories of that Saturday you wish you could take back; memories plucked randomly and tossed at you in no specific order. All of them are terrible.   
  
Ron, at your right, and Hermione, at your left, are sharing a suspicious sort of silence, the kind a child has when he's broken his mother's precious vase and is only waiting for her to find out.   
  
Just when you're turning at the corridor that leads to the Great Hall, Hermione turns to you and asks if you're okay.   
  
"Why? What's wrong?"   
  
"I don't know. I just noticed that you pay a lot more attention in class these days. I mean, that's great, and that's more than I can say for some people here" -- Ron frowns -- "but when you're not in class you seem quite... distraught."   
  
Ron says, "I think you being attentive in class is a problem in itself." Whereupon Hermione stamps her foot on his, temporarily shutting him up. You look at them and want to chuckle, but their concern concerns you. You don't like them worrying about you, and if you told them the truth, you know they're only going to worry more. You told Draco, for example, and he's killing himself over this. Over you. He tries not to show it too much, but you can tell.   
  
"I'm fine, Hermione. I really am. I'm just learning to manage my priorities."   
  
She sighs so softly that you can't tell whether it's from relief or frustration or sadness. "That's good, Harry. How about you and Malfoy? Are you doing all right?"   
  
"Yes, we're doing great." And to change the topic, you mention his mother's predicament and ask if she knows anything about Bedivere fever.   
  
"Oh, I've read about it in a library book. I have a list of all the titles I've read. I'm sure I'll remember which when I see it, I'll check it for you later if you'd like."   
  
"Yes. Thank you."   
  
"Are you sure you and Malfoy...?"   
  
"We're great, Hermione. Stop worrying about us. Now, how about you and Ron?" You wiggle your eyebrows and know, by the way both their cheeks flush crimson, that you've won this conversation. Ron hangs his head to hide his face, and Hermione smiles sheepishly.   
  
"You never did tell me what happened in Hogsmeade."   
  
"Oh, Harry, we didn't want to tell you because..." She looks to Ron's general direction for help.   
  
Ron looks cautiously at you. "You might get mad at us for pairing up--"   
  
"--and we don't want you to be _lonely_ or anything..."   
  
"So that's why you were asking about Mal -- Draco."   
  
"Yes," they say in chorus. Draco was right about sexual tension: you can almost feel the waves coming off them. You grin at them both, not minding at all. Of course you're not mad at them for pairing up, and if you're lonely, it really has nothing to do with them. So they finally came to their senses and got together. This only means that they'll spend more time cuddling and less time thinking about why you're more attentive in class or sometimes gloomy. And so, in celebration of this, you pull them into a tight group hug. Ron relaxes his tensed shoulders, visibly relieved. Hermione sighs with a smile.   
  
"Just stay together. And no violent quarrels."   
  
"Right," Ron says.   
  
"You have no idea how much we love you for this, Harry. Thank you."   
  
"I'm happy for you guys."   
  
The three of you resume walking to the Great Hall, a smile on each of your faces. You've learned so much about what to show people since what happened. You've learned how to smile and laugh for an audience; you've learned to make them happy when you yourself aren't happy. They're the ones who matter, anyway -- not you. They keep on living in the world they used to: a real world, a living world, a magical world, a world where things can go right. They have that privilege, and you don't. Your world has fallen apart and no one knows.   
  
In Herbology class you're in the middle of a crucial soil-turning when a voice tells you, so suddenly that you stop working for a moment, that it's just sex. What happened is just sex, and it wasn't your fault, and there's no reason to torture yourself for it. It's over. It's done. Just sex.   
  
But it kills you still, because you remember the way he looked at you with cold burning eyes, from lust or anger -- you don't know. And you remember the way his arms were stronger than you always thought they would be when they held you down to the bed, when his hands pushed your wrists to the brass headboard and fastened the handcuffs. Your hands couldn't breathe; _you_ couldn't breathe, and you didn't want to, not with his face only inches from yours. But you had no time to further control your lungs, because he pressed his wand to your neck and uttered a spell, and everything turned black.   
  
The memory is just beginning, but you feel dead already. 

**_Draco._**   
  
_Hermione read this library book once and she found information on Bedivere fever in it. Strange Cases in Wizard Physiology by Samwise Baggins. According to her, it's in the history section of the library. Good luck. And by the way, I'm going to have a talk with Remus after school. If you want me to ask anything, just say so._   
  
You are horrified with embarrassment. You cannot believe you, however indirectly, asked Hermione Granger for help. This is a disgrace. How were you to know that Harry actually cared enough to ask her? The thought brings a slight smile to your lips. He cared. He cares about you. But you frown because the point is that he shouldn't have asked _her,_ of all people, because she would probably never let you forget it. With enough patience and perseverance, you know you could have found the book yourself.   
  
You fold Harry's note and shove it into the pocket of your robes. Then you head to the library, willing to skip lunch in order to do research. After only a few minutes of hunting the history shelves, you spot the catchy bright blue binding of the book. You pull it out of the shelf slowly, place it on the nearest table, and sit down to do some serious reading.   
  
The illness is exactly as your father told you.   
  
Except for one essential detail.   
  
_It can be inferred that the only reason the Bedivere family kept him in bed when they found him unconscious was that they were horribly attached to him, because he was the provider of their needs and the only who brought the family substantial income. The extremely rare patients of Bedivere always appear deceased. Their appearance is similar to that of a real corpse: cold skin, a pale complexion, and a considerable degree of rigor mortis. The only way to find the distinction between Bedivere fever and death is a charm (invented fifty years after the Bedivere discovery) cast on the patient, which tells if he is alive or dead._   
  
You know your mother looked alive.   
  
So this is the loophole, then.   
  
But until now you don't know why your father has lied to you. You can only hope that he's not hiding some fatal sickness that will be the end of your mother, or planning to cast a spell on her to help him acquire his fell desires. Father wouldn't do that to Mum -- would he? What you know for sure is that he has never treated her with the almost hostile demeanor with which he treats others. You know he cares about her, even though he doesn't like to show it. They've never had any serious problems with each other. So what is he trying to do, then?   
  
You shake your head to yourself, pick up your quill, and reply to Harry's note:   
  
_You shouldn't have asked Hermione about that. My pride is at stake. But I found the loophole, so thanks. (Don't tell her that.) Could you ask Lupin if he knows any illness similar to Bedivere but where the patient looks alive but is hardly breathing? And please don't mention me. My pride is at stake. Many thanks._   
  
You go down to the Slytherin common room to owl it to Harry, feeling only a little guilty that you're using him. If Lupin knows nothing, you resolve, you'll ask Snape yourself and leave Harry out of this. He has enough to deal with, anyway. 

**_Harry._**   
  
You knock on Remus's door right after dinner and for a moment everything feels normal. You remember coming to his office (or his rooms, if it was later than seven-thirty) around twice or thrice a week before disaster struck in your life. You used to talk to him about nothing and everything: things that you didn't think Draco would want to talk about with you, or just things that you and Remus had in common. The DADA discussions were the best; Remus taught you new spells sometimes, almost like voluntary training for the time when things are bound to get tough, the time someone is bound to kill someone else. Sometimes Remus shared his treasured memories. He had tons of hilarious stories and you loved listening to them because they made you feel, somehow, like you knew your father and godfather as you should have.   
  
He pulls the door open and he almost looks surprised seeing you stand there. He grins right away, tossing his head toward the inside of the room for you to come in. His reddish brown hair, now grown longer, frames his face quite handsomely.   
  
You nearly blush at this thought.   
  
Remus is considerably older, but he has a boyish smile and hair as soft as unicorns' tails. At least, it _looks_ soft. Up until now you've had no inclination to touch it. Remus's robes still look ancient and overused; he is the kind of attractive that doesn't try. So different from Draco, you realize. Draco tries. You used to keep telling him he would be just as beautiful if he didn't brush his hair five times a day, but he always replied that that worked only for you. But Remus--   
  
You shake the ideas out of your head and smile at him. "Hi."   
  
"Hi, Harry. Tea?"   
  
"Sure."   
  
He sits behind his desk. You sit on one of the two chairs before it. He pours you a cup, and by the slowness of it you realize what he is thinking about saying. You clear your throat and say, "About me and Draco Malfoy..."   
  
"What about you?"   
  
"We're, um, sort of, going out. Not that we go out too often, but you know what I mean."   
  
He chuckles. "I guessed that much."   
  
"You don't... mind or anything?"   
  
"No, as long as you're happy, Harry. How long have you been together?"   
  
"Since Easter this year. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't think you'd... like the news."   
  
"What makes you say so?"   
  
"Because Draco used to be a slimy git?"   
  
He shrugs. "You're right about that. The boy doesn't _hurt_ you or anything, does he?"   
  
Warmth rises to your face. "No. No. What do you mean?"   
  
"I think you know what I mean." There is an amused smile dancing on his lips and you have to shake your head. Sometimes he seems so much younger than he is. That's why you love talking to him: he does his best to understand.   
  
You lean back and look around the office. An empty water tank in one corner, an entire wall of disorganized shelves, a stack of paper on a chair. There are two paintings on the opposite wall: an empty beach with breakers foaming on the shore, and a path in a forest leading off to nowhere. The walls covered in maroon wallpaper with golden fleurs-de-lis. There is a file cabinet behind Remus's desk, and a table with rolls of parchment strewn haphazardly around. The atmosphere is cozier in Remus's rooms, but his office still feels informal enough to be comfortable, like home, like some remnant from the past. You love it here.   
  
"Oh, Remus, I meant to ask you. Do you know anything about Bedivere fever?"   
  
"I've read about it, yes."   
  
"Do you know of any illness resembling it exactly, except for the fact that the patient looks alive and just asleep?"   
  
"Why, there are many possibilities out there, Harry. But some of the others are perhaps too rare to consider... this happened to a normal wizard?"   
  
"Witch. And yes, she's pretty normal, I suppose. Narcissa Malfoy?"   
  
"All right. Let's see..." 

**_Draco._**   
  
You have never been comfortable with Professor Snape. He makes the effort, of course, for all the Slytherins to like him and be at ease under his tutelage, using mostly foul means, like giving hefty house points to Slytherin and taking them away from the other houses. And he tries to make himself appear approachable to his house, but he fails entirely, because to be honest, the man has not one ounce of charisma in his body.   
  
But once you receive Harry's note about an hour after dinner, you know that you have no choice in the matter.   
  
_Lupin doesn't know anything similar to Bedivere. We had a lovely talk, though. He doesn't mind at all about us. Sorry I couldn't help._   
  
You reread it and write a quick reply: _Thanks anyway. Can you meet me tomorrow at about eight? Just to talk. Astronomy Tower, all right? Owl me if you have any objections. I'll be waiting._   
  
After you let Preston fly off with it, you square your shoulders and leave the common room. You walk down the dimly lit halls toward the Potions classroom. Snape is still there, most likely. He's always doing some kind of paperwork or other, and he seems to like his office much better than his chambers, where he goes only when he's all too ready to go to bed. He's younger than your father and already he's so eccentric. Sometimes you worry about him, but most of the time you just don't like thinking about him at all.   
  
You walk across the classroom and to the door to his office. You knock softly, hear the muffled "Come in," and enter. He is, as usual, at his desk, this time grading some lengthy essays. He takes one look at you and, probably because you're in his house, puts down his quill and gestures for you to sit down. If you were in Gryffindor you know he would take one glance at you, go back to his work, and speak without ever looking up again. And he would leave you standing. Snape is hilarious, really.   
  
His beetle black eyes glint at you. It's something even he cannot control. "Anything wrong, Mr. Malfoy? Have you come to badger me again about what I may know?"   
  
"Actually, yes, sir, but I'll try to make this quick. You see, my mother..."   
  
And so you narrate the entire fiasco, conscious the whole time of his eyes fixed unwaveringly on you. Snape remains motionless with his arms crossed over his chest, sitting back in his chair, until you come to the end of your story: the latest discovery that Bedivere patients should, in fact, appear totally and permanently dead. By the time you finish, his frown is deeper than it usually is, and the furrow between his eyebrows is not of impatience, but of concern.   
  
He says, his leveled gaze direct and frightening, "I have a confession to make." 

----------- 

---TBC--- 

Author's Note:

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeone[at]yahoo[dot] com) or join my mailing list (groups[dot]yahoo[dot]com[slash]group[slash]essence[underscore]hp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	8. Revealed

**Eight: Revealed**

**_Harry._**   
  
There is a beautiful hallway on the sixth floor that you have never been to before. One side is a high wood-paneled wall with hanging torches but no doors. The other side is an elegant display of stained glass windows that go from floor to ceiling. It is evening, and the moonlight from outside is too meager to light up the glass; but the torch fires, dancing to some soundless music, waver over the surface and illuminate the thousands of colors, making them sparkle. The four windows are really one huge picture, and it looks like it was created during the very beginning of the school, because the four founders are standing on a dais at the very center, posing happily. The rest of the picture is the entirety of Hogwarts painted with the most impressive details. There are boys and girls in their uniforms, the Quidditch pitch, the classrooms, the courtyard, various rooms within the school, magical objects, even the Great Hall, the lake, the giant squid. It is not a map but an artistic portrayal that fascinates and enchants you with its magnificence. So you lean back on the opposite wall, slide down to the floor, wrap your arms around your legs, and admire it.   
  
It's late, but sleep is like a Snitch in the wilderness. You've been walking around since your talk with Remus, losing yourself in the rooms and halls of Hogwarts, but the tour has offered no solace. You don't know how to pause, to forget, because you're more worried about this -- about everything -- than Hermione has ever been worried about her studies, and that's saying a lot. Remus's voice plays over and over in the back of your mind; you wish to tear your hair out and make it go away, if only you didn't doubt that it would only make things worse.   
  
_"I think, Harry, the most feasible theory is that this was an effect of a broken contract. A marriage contract, to be specific. When a witch and a wizard have their wedding, they sign a magical agreement that promises some consequence if it's breached. It's not always a punishment against the offender; sometimes it's just something strange that happens without actually hurting anyone, just to inform the couple what sin has been committed. There are different choices for agreements, but there's one of them that's popular with all the respected purebloods. It's the faithfulness contract -- yes, that's what it's called -- and if ever, say, a husband cheats on his wife -- cheating is defined by sex with another person -- the wife gets knocked unconscious for a few days. Yes, it's unfair, but that's the way it works. The number of days actually corresponds to the number of years they've been married, and the sleep kicks in on the third day after the cheating happens. So if Lucius and Narcissa have been married for five years, and Lucius sleeps with another woman today, since today is Tuesday, Narcissa will go to sleep at midnight between Thursday and Friday -- assuming she's not already asleep, of course -- and not wake up until Wednesday morning, after midnight. She'll keep breathing but it'll be very slight, because she'll need less air. Is this exactly how Draco described it? If so, I guess we can assume Lucius is being a bad, bad boy."_   
  
You sigh, eyes passing over the beautiful glasswork. You remember him threatening you not to "tell anyone about this, Potter, or you will regret it," his voice slithering hot into your ears like the snake he is. You remember how his perfume was concentrated on his neck, whose side pushed against your nose so you could become heady from the smell of the lake and the Forbidden Forest and wonder why rich purebloods have to mix all the scents together because they can't decide which one to buy. You were heady from sleep, but the tang managed to wake up your senses. Later you would wish it hadn't. Because later he would clamp his teeth onto your neck and push into you unprepared, and there would be pain, frightening and angry and raw, and it would remain inside you forever, haunting and waiting, always waiting.   
  
Before the magnificent windows in the magnificent hallway, you cry over the magnificent catastrophe for the first time, because there is always a first time, and you knew yours would come soon. You welcome the tears that flow like stray faucet droplets down your cheeks. They flow and you let them, warm and painful, until there are no longer tracks on your face because all the fresh ones have streamed over the others. You cry and there is no one beside you to wipe them away; you leave your cheeks wet and hug your legs and look down between your knees, watching the hot tears pool on the cold floor. And you know that nothing will make it better; and you know that no one can get things back to the way they were. You won't tell Draco anything Remus told you. You won't tell Draco his father raped you. You won't.   
  
You can't. 

**_Draco._**   
  
_"I was at their wedding."_   
  
You toss in bed, aware that your blankets are a tangle in your legs, and the collar of your pajamas clings to your neck with the sweat of anxiety.   
  
_"I haven't told you the complete truth because I didn't want to jump to conclusions, but owing to your recent discoveries..."_   
  
When Snape first explained the bizarre contract your parents signed at their wedding with their wands, it sounded too strange to believe. But Snape was dead serious, and you had no choice, because even then you knew it was the truth, and you were just trying to hide from it. Wizards have magical wedding contracts -- didn't you say that yourself?   
  
_"I had come up for some parchment, and I saw him talking to Potter on the seventh floor before the game. Before you started playing I asked him why, and he told me -- too ambiguously -- about a plan to take revenge on Harry Potter because Potter was seducing his son. I thought he was talking nonsense, making a Death Eater joke. Later, I noticed he had already gone -- I don't know for how long -- and I went up there again. He was coming out of the Room of Requirement. He said he was only looking around, reminiscing. He asked me to accompany him downstairs. The game was over by then. We talked a bit before he left -- the usual things, the weather, how the wife is, how life is -- and when I went back up and opened the door to the Room of Requirement, there was nothing inside but shelves upon shelves of books. Potter had gone, and I wanted information."_   
  
For the millionth time that night, you count the days. Saturday, twenty-fifth of October. Third day after that is Tuesday. Your parents have been married for twenty years. If all goes well (and nothing can go well, you think bitterly), your mother will awaken on the seventeenth of November. The total number of days starting on the twenty-fifth would be twenty-three, only one day more than the Bedivere average. It all fits well enough for your father to lie and get away with it -- only he didn't. Half of you wishes he did.   
  
You pull the curtains open and the dim moonlight illuminates your bed, which is now reduced to a tangled mess with you at the very center. Exactly what your life feels like. You run a hand through your hair and notice how sweaty it's become. You rub your eyes, reaching toward the nightstand for the glass of water you always have there. Instead your fingers close in on your flask of Veritaserum. According to the instructions you have to add one red rose petal at precisely nine in the morning tomorrow for the finishing step. The class won't be allowed to use it, of course; Snape will grade the potion by color, smell, and properties that can be distinguished by incantations.   
  
But Snape won't notice the absence of a few drops, surely: drops that might have been innocently spilled during the process. With your carefulness in preparing this potion, you're certain you can spare much more than a few.   
  
You know what you have to do.   
  
You emerge from Transfiguration with a growing headache and drowsy eyes. Last night was a nightmare, although you were barely asleep. All you could think of was your father, and Harry, your father, and Harry--   
  
Somehow you still cannot accept the idea that he, _he,_ the man who raised you and fed you and taught you what dignity meant , was the one who took the dignity of the one person you truly cared about, and in so doing proved that he is totally unworthy of being a father. You trusted him. You hate to admit it to yourself, but until today you trusted him blindly and with all your heart; you knew he would never try to hurt you. But he has hurt Harry and this hurts you more than if you were the one he had raped.   
  
_That's not true. You don't know a thing,_ a voice inside tells you. You head straight toward the Slytherin dorms. Blaise asks you why you're not coming with them to dinner. You reply in a sleepy drawl (and you really are sleepy): "I'm not hungry. You guys go."   
  
Blaise and Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle nod en masse. Goyle rubs his stomach as they go on to the Great Hall. The poor guy is always hungry. You, meanwhile, feel like going to sleep and vomiting. You take a few seconds to wonder which one to do first, but when you mutter the password and the stone slab opens, there is no time to accomplish either. At least not until your conscience leaves you in peace.   
  
Up in your dorm room, you take some Veritaserum in a small dropper, twist your ring five times counter-clockwise, and disappear.   
  
It's all set. When you arrived you immediately rang your bell for a house-elf and requested two cups of tea. He brought them immediately in a tray, along with an expensive-looking teapot. When he disappeared you dropped the potion into the cup where the teapot spout was pointing. You'd read in a feng shui book that Chinese Muggles used to use pitcher spouts to point at the traitor seated at a table. And your father is a traitor like no other.   
  
You carried the tray into your parents' room, set it down on the table by the wall-length window, and now you wait. Your father is bound to appear any moment. He always does.   
  
For him to take the spiked tea, you take big sip from your cup, then place it on the table surface outside the tray. You watch your mother, unmoving, the sun still in her hair and on her cheeks like the breath of life. She is beautiful even in sleep, and you realize that Lucius hurt _her,_ too, like he hurt Harry and the people who care about him, including you.   
  
You yawn from lack of sleep and keep waiting. You will wait until the end of the night. Besides, you will have to turn in the Veritaserum tomorrow morning and you will no longer be able to use it. Besides, you owe Harry this much.   
  
You don't know how to tell him what your father did. And you don't know if you'll have the courage to.   
  
Lucius comes in.   
  
"Draco, what are you doing here? Over-excited, aren't we? I have only five presents for you so far."   
  
"I didn't come here for presents, Father."   
  
Lucius's eyes glint. "And what _did_ you come here for, pray tell?"   
  
"Please, sit down, Dad. I'd like to have a little talk."   
  
Lucius sits down, spares only a cursory glance at the tea, and looks at you straight in the eyes. You mirror his gaze, not planning to surrender. Your father likes games; in the rare moments when you try to defy him, he likes to push you into showing signs of weakness: to give up, to give in. You can't risk that now, or you will never get this chance again. So you look at him and will him to drink the tea, drink the tea...   
  
"To what do I owe this talk, exactly?"   
  
"The truth, Father. I've received some very disturbing news." You decide to be as ambiguous as possible up to the moment he talks himself to thirst and drinks. Just a few sips will do. The nine drops of potion you put in are actually quite strong.   
  
"What news, Draco? I'm aching to hear it." The sarcasm is evident in his tone, as well as the command to hurry up and say something of substance.   
  
"Two Saturdays ago, when Professor Snape went upstairs before the end of the Quidditch match, he saw you coming out the Room of Requirement. You lied, Father. You said you went home to check on Mum, but you were still in Hogwarts. What were you doing in that room?" You are fully aware that you sound like a distrusting inquisitor. It's only appropriate: Lucius Malfoy is a criminal, and he deserves to be interrogated like one.   
  
Lucius frowns: a slight almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, a lifting of his chin. "What are you accusing me of, Draco?"   
  
"Of lying, Dad. Tell me the truth." Drink the tea, drink the tea, damn it.   
  
He raises a delicate eyebrow, waiting for you to say something more. He appears impatient and superior, but inside he's already seething. You've lived with him for sixteen years: you have your ways of knowing. For one, he tenses in his seemingly comfortable position, and his hands clutch the arms of the chair, aching to be turned into fists.   
  
"I know what happened. But I need to hear it straight from you." You are beginning to lose hope of him ever taking a sip. It seems you've made him too angry to think about drinking.   
  
He sneers. "What happened, then?"   
  
You inhale through your teeth, your anger rising to the surface like bile. Yes, he is a Death Eater, and he thrives on ruining people's lives. But this is _Harry's_ life, God damn it, and it matters to you. You just want him to tell you that he did it, and why. Considering all he's already done, that wouldn't be too difficult, would it? But he has to stall, and he has to keep lying, as if he's doing it purposely to annoy you. At this moment you want to take him by his hair and push him to the floor and punch his face, fight against him the Muggle way until the carpet is soiled with his sweat and blood, kick him in the ribs until he can no longer move. But you don't, because he once taught you to play nicely, to win with your head and not your fists, and this is what you're used to.   
  
"Why did you rape Harry Potter?" you ask directly, and you cannot continue looking at him. You scowl at his nose and mouth instead.   
  
He shrugs. Just shrugs, as if it's such a trivial matter. "You and Potter were getting too close for my liking, Draco. It was the only way I could set things right again -- for good."   
  
You gasp inaudibly furrowing your eyebrows. How the--   
  
"How the fuck did you know about me and Harry?!"   
  
"Owls can be intercepted, dear son. I read all his letters to you in the summer, and I'm glad you didn't notice. Very touching indeed, the way you apparently sympathized with his stay at his relatives' -- the Dursleys, weren't they?"   
  
"You had no right," you murmur, standing up. Your voice grows louder with every word, your cheeks hotter with fury: "You had no right to read my letters. You had no right to 'set things right!' You had no right to -- to--"   
  
"On the contrary, Draco, I had every right. I only want what's good for my son. Potter is the enemy, and I don't think you're doing our side a favor by sleeping with him. And I hardly think it's a highly complex plan to make him fall in love and capture him in the end. It was my duty, as your father, to finish the disaster before it could do more damage to you or to anyone else."   
  
"Your duty?! Your duty to destroy someone, is that it? And don't you dare think you can make me believe you did it for me, because you don't care, you're never cared about anything but yourself--"   
  
"Sit down, Draco, and kindly shut up. I will not have you forget that you're only my son--"   
  
"And you're only my Father." You shake your head, boiling with rage. You glare with daggers into his uncaring eyes.   
  
You twist your ring and disappear. 

**_Harry._**   
  
The room is warm from the fire in the hearth. The shadows flutter across the light green walls, and you watch them with resigned fascination. The sky is dark outside the small window, a black silk blanket with pinpricks of stars. Draco is an hour late.   
  
When twenty minutes passed after you arrived, you began using your wand to repair some rips in the armchairs. You also used some basic scouring and softening charms, and soon enough they looked brand new and were more comfortable than they had ever been before. And then, because Draco wasn't there yet, you also made the effort to clean and repair the dirty chipped paint on the walls. The paint is still an undesirable shade, but at least now it looks more welcoming.   
  
You are seated quietly on your chair, and you remember that day when _you_ were an hour late and, even if he was angry about his lost game, he forgave you easily enough for it. You wait, determined to stay there until he shows up, because he did the same for you. You wait because maybe you love him. You wait because you have to let him go.   
  
Draco never comes. 

TBC

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeone[at]yahoo[dot] com) or join my mailing list (groups[dot]yahoo[dot]com[slash]group[slash]essence[underscore]hp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	9. Ending

**Nine: Ending**

**_Harry._**  
  
The entire day is busy with classes and crammed homework. You still can't believe you forgot to do your Transfiguration essay yesterday afternoon; you had to do it at lunch, and it was a pointless double-spaced mess. But you know, at least, that it won't bring your grades down too much. You've been doing extraordinary well in all your classes.  
  
Dinner, as usual, is a cacophony of excited students. You have had no opportunity to speak with Draco and you hope you can catch up with him after eating, at least to ask him why he never appeared last night. It's not like him to arrange a meeting and completely forget about it, especially since he has an eidetic memory and can remember any appointment months before with no difficulty whatsoever.  
  
Halfway through dinner you see him stand up from the Slytherin table. He mutters something to Pansy Parkinson and goes out the doors of the Great Hall. You watch him go and, without saying a word to Hermione or Ron, who are quite possibly too caught up in each other's saccharine gaze to notice anyway, you get up and follow his exit. He is nowhere in sight, but you have a clear idea of where he's going. You double your pace and hurry toward the Slytherin dungeons, and sure enough you see him walking down the dimly lit hall, the click of his heels echoing on the walls. You catch up to him. "Draco. We have to talk."  
  
He stops short, keeps facing straight ahead. His shoulders rise up and down with every breath, as if he was doing all he could to avoid this confrontation. Slowly and unsurely, he turns to you.  
  
"What about?" he whispers. He sounds breathless.  
  
And that's how he leaves you as well, because the torchlight makes shadows play under his cheekbones and he looks ethereal. This is his place, the dungeons. Like in that room in the Astronomy Tower, being here makes him look beautiful even if he doesn't try. Or maybe he is beautiful now only because of what you're about to do. Because you aren't going to see his beauty again.  
  
"About us," you answer, your defenses beginning to crumble. Last night you were certain about this, and more than ready. Why has your courage decided to walk out on you now? Why is it so difficult to disregard your feelings, when other things are far more important?  
  
"All right," he answers quietly, and you almost get the idea that he knows what's coming. He nods and walks toward the Astronomy Tower, and you follow him, mentally rehearsing what to say. You've never felt so nervous around him before, not even back when he was a bastard with his father's sneer and his father's words. Some obscure part of your mind suggests that you wait until after his birthday to do this, but the more logical part retorts that this is the best birthday gift you could give him. The longer he stays with you, the more he will try to find out who did it -- and, sooner or later, he's bound to stumble upon the truth. After all, it's right under his nose.  
  
You stop him before the two of you get there, fearing that the room in the Tower will bring you too many memories for anything to go the way it's supposed to. You pull him into an empty classroom and shut the door behind you. Its click into place sounds like the beginning of an end.  
  
Draco, with his hands in his pockets, looks tired and lost. He lets his gaze rove around the room as if he doesn't know what to say if he looks at you. He's been worried: that much is obvious. Yes, he stood you up last night, but he must have had a good reason. You would forgive him a thousand times anyway.  
  
"What did you want to talk about?" he finally asks. He trains his eyes on the top of a desk. So tired.  
  
"Draco, I think it would be good... for both of us... if we took some time apart."  
  
And _then_ he looks at you, with the force of urgency, his gray eyes intense. He parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out. You want to avert your eyes but you hold his gaze, trying to impart to him what words cannot express. You're in love with him, with all his imperfections, with the way he looks at you, with the way he cares about you and does his best to show it, with the way he has a subtle smile on his face when he's making potions, with his stringent table manners, with the annoying manner he rolls his eyes when he throws you a good-natured insult. But it's about time.  
  
"I've been nothing but a burden to you the past few weeks. I'm not as strong as you think, Draco, and -- hell, we don't even... do the things we used to anymore. I don't want you to have that. I want you to be with someone who'll pay attention to you, who won't be scared to kiss you, and... someone who's not broken by the past. And I need time to fix myself, Draco."  
  
As far as you can remember, you've never seen Draco Malfoy cry. But now that he does, you are struck by the discovery that he is beautiful even so: his cheeks are tinged crimson, and his tears make his pink-rimmed eyes sparkle. Two identical drops flow down his cheeks, leaving pure paths. He looks like a broken angel, and guilt stings your heart.  
  
"It's all right," he says, almost to himself. "It's all right. I understand."  
  
"I don't want to hurt you." You are unsure of what to say, because he's not putting up a fight. From the moment you decided on this, you knew he would try to convince you--  
  
"You're not a burden to me. Not at all. I... Merlin. I love you, Harry. And you _are_ strong. After all you've gone through, you're stronger than anyone I know. I'm only agreeing to this... this breakup... because I know something that you--" A hiccup interrupts his sentence. He lifts both hands and wipes his tears away, but his eyes are still glistening. "Harry, it was my father who raped you. He admitted it. He told me. He even told me he intercepted your letters, and he read them before he owled them back to me. He was the one who took you to the Room of Requirement and -- and--" He sobs uncontrollably, sliding down to the floor, an old man exhausted by life. He buries his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, Harry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."  
  
He breaks down. 

**_Draco._**  
  
He sits down on the floor beside you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You bury your head in his chest. He is here for you, even when you're the one who's supposed to be comforting him. He has always been here. And how about you?  
  
"I know, Draco."  
  
Silence comes, and there is nothing comfortable about it. You wipe the tears from your eyes and look up at him, vision still blurry from crying, and his green eyes are dark with guilt and weariness.  
  
Somebody once said that the truth shall set you free. He never realized he was only in a bigger cage.  
  
"I -- why -- you knew?"  
  
"I knew. I was never blindfolded in the first place."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"I didn't want you to have to choose between me and your father."  
  
No words come. For a moment you just sit there with him, your hiccups echoing in the dark classroom. You feel his eyes on you, worried and sad, and you know you have to be strong for him: he deserves that much.  
  
"Harry," you sigh, and you embrace him as tightly as you can. This may well be the last hug that you share; you would like to remember it for the rest of your life. Harry's hand comes up to comb slowly through your hair. You breathe in his scent and try to memorize the way his taut back feels underneath your palms.  
  
And you know you have to do this. Because Harry knows, because Lucius Malfoy is your father, he moves like you and talks like you (he _is_ you): because Harry was raped by someone with gray eyes and silver blond hair and a pureblood accent. Because you don't want to keep hurting him like your father did. He needs to be without you. And that's what you're going to give him.  
  
"Draco--"  
  
"Yes, Harry, I know." You pull away hesitantly, and his hand lingers on your lower back, as if he too is unwilling to let go. But there is no other choice: you could stay together and both be miserable with memory and guilt, or you could break up and move on with your lives with nothing to remind you of the rotten past. One must choose the lesser evil.  
  
"Promise me you'll try to forget about me. About us. See other people, don't wait for me, be happy, Draco."  
  
You take a deep breath. You can't promise that. You can't.  
  
"Promise me," he says vehemently.  
  
You nod.  
  
You know you're going to break it.  
  
Harry stands. His eyes are shining with unshed tears.  
  
"Goodbye, Draco."  
  
You can't look at him as he leaves. You hear only the door creaking open, his shoes shuffling on the floor, the door clicking shut. He's gone.  
  
"I choose you," you say to no one. "I choose you over my father. I choose you over anyone. I choose you, Harry."  
  
The fresh tears are hot on your cheeks.

**_Harry._**  
  
A strident steady ringing crawls slowly into your ears. You keep your eyes shut, adjust your head on the pillow, and continue your slumber. A dream later you hear the ringing again, and that's when you realize it's the alarm clock. Sighing, you reach out and pound the clock's surface with your palm. It stops. You yawn. You go to sleep again.  
  
Another dream later you open your eyes so suddenly that the meager light blinds you. You sit up, examining the state of your bed. The blankets form a hill at the center. The pillow is at the very right side, and you see that you only had to roll a few inches and you would have fallen to the floor. The curtains are translucent with light from outside. You pull them open and the sunlight enters almost harshly, warm on your skin. You swing your legs to the edge of the bed and place your feet flat on the floor. You stand, look around, and see that the rest of the boys are still asleep. Yawning, you enter the bathroom to perform your daily routine.  
  
It feels like a normal day, considering.  
  
At breakfast you sit, for the first time, with your back facing the Slytherin table. You concentrate on your food, slicing and chewing the bacon and eggs with as much grace as possible. Like him. You strain your tongue to taste every morsel of flavor. It's been too long since you last enjoyed eating, and today is as good a time to start as any. But the bacon is too salty and the eggs are undercooked, and soon enough you get sick of the sodium. You put down your utensils and grab your cup of coffee, and that, at least, is good. Sweet with a bitter undercurrent, not too creamy, just the way you like it. The warmth slides down to your stomach as you breathe in the delicious aroma.  
  
Ron and Hermione look at you like it's the end of the world and you don't know it. They're seated at the opposite side, so they have the privilege of seeing you full-view. As far as you know, you're acting quite ordinarily. You don't see what they're so caught up about.  
  
"Are you two sleeping with each other?" you say to fuel the conversation, and Ron chokes on his coffee. He promptly starts to cough. Hermione rubs his back with the palm of her hand, avoiding your gaze, horrified.  
  
"I suppose the answer's yes." You smirk, and Ron's face becomes a strange shade of puce.  
  
"Harry!" Hermione exclaims in a tone that reminds you of Mrs. Weasley.  
  
"I was just asking."  
  
"No, Harry, we haven't," Ron clarifies, still red as a tomato.  
  
"We're worried about you," Hermione admits.  
  
"You're always worried about me," you retort, and you wonder if Draco is worried too.  
  
You sniff at your coffee until it makes you stop thinking.  
  
Dinner is more crowded than breakfast and lunch because everyone's hungry and the food is always good. When you arrive at the table, there's no place to sit on at the side facing the windows, so you have to sit facing the other tables. Luckily the Hufflepuffs are fussing over something at the center of their table, conveniently blocking the way, and it's easy to force yourself to keep your eyes on the serving plates. There are rolls, potatoes, roast chicken, gravy, corn and carrots, and some saucy broccoli for the vegetarians. You take a leg of roast chicken and slowly consume it using a fork and knife.  
  
"Harry, what are you doing?" Ron says, waving his chicken leg in the air. "That's not the way you eat chicken."  
  
Hermione rolls her eyes. "Apparently Harry's not as barbaric as you, Ron. Congratulations, Harry." She smiles.  
  
"Merlin, you're acting very strange lately." Ron resumes eating.  
  
"Ron, fancy a game of chess after dinner?"  
  
He raises an eyebrow, his busy jaws momentarily ceasing. He's surprised, of course. You haven't played chess with him in weeks. And then, with a somewhat prodding undertone, "No rendezvous with Malfoy tonight?"  
  
Inside, you wince. You should have expected him to come up sooner or later, but you'd thought it might likely be later, and you'd hoped you would never have to tell them, and they'd never have to ask. Fate, however, always has other plans. You paste an impassive expression on your face and say, with quite a level voice, "We broke up."  
  
"Why--"  
  
Hermione takes the time to glare at Ron before interrupting, "I'm sure it's for the better, Harry. We'll help you get over him, don't worry."  
  
"Um. Thanks?" ...but no thanks.  
  
"Hearts may break, but eventually they heal. You'll see."  
  
You nod. Yes, we'll see. 

**_Draco._**  
  
It would be good for both of us if we took some time apart, he said. But it hurts more than you could imagine when he arrives at breakfast and sits with his back to you for the first time ever. What makes it more painful is that you want to help him, to do something for him to forget, but you know that every effort will only make the problem worse. You're the heir of the problem, after all.  
  
You eat haphazardly, hating your father. The food isn't commendable, but you need to chew something to keep your mind off things and your fists off your innocent housemates. You're angry. But they don't even know it.  
  
Of course, a minute later Pansy notices your rather newfound voracity, and tells you to slow down, you might choke or something. "Yes, mother," you reply, and she rolls her eyes, annoyed. Sometimes you insult her with all the bitterness you can muster and she always just rolls her eyes as if you made a joke, even though you were dead serious. You will never fully understand her.  
  
Ten minutes into Transfiguration, your eyes wander out the window, your mind purged of all thought. It's a strange kind of daydreaming you sometimes do; your mind drifts away into nothingness, and you look at your surroundings and take in no information whatsoever. It's like sleep in the midst of wakefulness. In this light-headed non-reverie you hear vaguely the sound of McGonagall calling your name. You look at the sky, a plain, empty blue, as blue and empty as your thoughts. You hear McGonagall again, saying "Draco Malfoy" more insistently. As if in a dream, you turn to her and smile. She rewards you with a frown. Then she asks you a question. You can barely hear it.  
  
"Pardon me?" you say, and when she repeats it you realize that it calls for an answer that you need your conscious mind for. You shake off the emptiness in your head and, coherent and most definitely awake, "Um. I'm not sure..."  
  
"Surely you can accomplish it, Mr. Malfoy, given your consistent performance? Please, turn your quill into a ballpoint pen so the class can continue."  
  
You perform the transfiguration, and the resulting pen looks more expensive than your quill.  
  
"That's very good, Malfoy. But please, pay attention." She turns back to the class. "As you can see, the spell allows us to turn the tip of the quill into a rolling metal ball..."  
  
You sigh, hoping they have chicken teriyaki for lunch. You love that.  
  
You could march over to the Gryffindor common room, go up the tower, and kiss him till he can't live without it.  
  
You could intercept him on his way to Quidditch practice, take him to the Astronomy Tower, and win him over with your charm.  
  
You could sit in the stands and watch him until he begs for you to go away: it makes him nervous.  
  
You could walk to the library and ask Granger if he's talked about you, if he wants to get back together at all.  
  
Instead you skip dinner and spend the rest of the night in front of the common room fire, thinking about life and death and trivial things. You're not quite sure how to move on. But you know you want Harry to, and the only way he can do that is if you're not there with him.  
  
It's the beginning of a lonely, lonely life. 

TBC.

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeone[at]yahoo[dot] com) or join my mailing list (groups[dot]yahoo[dot]com[slash]group[slash]essence[underscore]hp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (username: galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	10. Weeks

**Ten: Weeks**

**_Draco._**  
  
Week One.  
  
Saturday, eighth of November, 1997. You are not woken by Blaise Zabini's daily alarm clock, which he uses to get to the bathroom first every morning. Crabbe's snores and Goyle's deep breathing are miraculously nonexistent. Theodore Nott isn't muttering to himself, like he always does right before he wakes up. In fact -- you strain your ears to listen -- the room is absolutely and positively empty.  
  
For a moment you listen only to your own breathing and the emptiness of sound. You stretch your back, then sit up on your bed, pulling back the curtains. Yes, the room is empty, and alarmingly neat. You rub your eyes slowly, realizing you might have overslept. That's all right. There's nothing notable in your schedule today, anyway. You spare a glance at the wall clock across the room. Only nine o' clock. Why is everyone awake and gone?  
  
You hurry to the bathroom, splash some water on your face, check the floor. Wet. So they've taken their showers.  
  
You brush your teeth, spend half an hour under the warm shower, and dress in a gray sweater and black trousers. You go downstairs to the common room, thinking about what to do today. You remember the days you used to wake up on Saturday mornings and immediately think of how to torment Harry. You thought about him too much for your own good, of course, and eventually you discovered why.  
  
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DRACO!!!" they yell when you open the common room door, nearly giving you a heart attack.  
  
Oh.  
  
After a day of sweets, presents, alcoholic Butterbeer, Quidditch, stupid games, and watching Crabbe and Goyle try to torment the Whomping Willow (Slytherins know how to have fun -- you have to give them that), you stumble into the common room with your head light with inebriation and your veins burning with too much sugar. Pansy is clinging to your arm in case you trip, although she looks no better than you. The first thing you notice is Preston rapping on the window with a package. Pansy rolls her eyes, yells at no one in particular to please keep this window open, and lets Preston in. You take the package from his claws and he flies away with an irritated hoot, off to the owlery where there's actually somewhere to perch. It's nine-thirty in the evening, too early for bed, but you yawn and head for the dorms anyway. Pansy asks where you're going, as if it isn't obvious.  
  
"I have another surprise for you," she says, smiling in what's supposed to be a mysteriously alluring way.  
  
"Bring it upstairs, then," you tell her, and shut the door behind you. You bet Pansy is rolling her eyes and thinking about how you love playing hard to get. At least you're sure she won't be mad.  
  
When you enter the room, you jump stomach first onto your bed, examining the package. The wrapper is a metallic bright red, but the ribbon is a curly mess of green and silver.  
  
Of course you know whom it's from.  
  
You carefully untie the ribbon and unfold the wrapper, not wanting to ruin them. You lift the lid of the small box.  
  
A dragon stares up at you.  
  
You notice a piece of card inside. You read it slowly:  
  
_This is a model of a Hungarian Horntail. I got it in the Triwizard Tournament and thought of giving it to you. You remind me of a dragon, you see.  
  
I sneaked into Hogsmeade some time in October and had protection spells put on it. Just keep it near and you'll be all right. If the dragon breathes fire on you -- which you can induce by pressing on both wings -- what comes out is really a potion to keep you safe from many hexes wherever you go. It last about an hour after you spray, but the potion inside doesn't run out.  
  
I don't know if this present is welcome. I hope you accept it as a peace offering at least, or something to remember me by. Thanks for everything.  
  
Goodbye,  
  
Harry._  
  
Goodbye.  
  
You press the dragon's wings to its body, squeezing, aiming its mouth on your wrist. As promised, the fire is really a gentle, airy potion that reminds you of perfume. You bring your wrist to your nose and sniff. It smells like...  
  
Well. It smells like him.  
  
Maybe you're imagining things. You sniff again. It's Harry's scent still; you remember it as clearly as the color of his eyes, the texture of his hair, the way his skin tastes under your lips.  
  
_The potion inside doesn't run out._ You wonder for a second how much he spent for the spell and potion services. But that train of thought doesn't last too long, because so many things mean more than money. He might have spent a fortune, but the more important thing is that...  
  
What? That he remembered your birthday? That he sent you a gift? That he wrote you a note? That he made sure it would never run out so you would be forced to remember him forever?  
  
No, he wouldn't do that. He wants you to forget about him.  
  
But he still cares.  
  
You stroke the dragon's spine and it seems to smile at the touch, closing its eyes and tilting his head back. It's adorable.  
  
The door bursts open.  
  
You shove the dragon and card into the box and place them in your nightstand drawer as carefully and calmly as possible, so as not to arouse suspicion. Pansy smiles down at you. You roll onto your side and smile back.  
  
And _then_ you see what she's wearing.  
  
If it can be defined as 'wearing' at all.  
  
It's a black thing. That much you can distinguish. Her full breasts are visible from behind two transparent, lacey, and obviously under-wired cups. The thing ends in a see-through ruffle just under her buttocks, and behind the cloth you can see her black and lacey underwear scarcely covering her crotch. She twirls around for your viewing pleasure, and apparently it's a thong she's in, and you shut your eyes because you really, really didn't need to see that.  
  
Her grin is so wide that you don't know whether to punch it off her face or to pander to all her requests lest she be truly disappointed. "Like what you see?" she murmurs in a husky voice that really does not fit her. Where did she learn it, you wonder.  
  
She steps closer to the bed with the grace of a courtesan, kneels slowly before you, and edges closer until your faces are only inches apart.  
  
Normally, when a woman seduces a man, even if she is not particularly beautiful, he feels a fluttering in his stomach and a slight thudding of his heart. The extraordinary sensations come simply because she cares enough to give him what all men are rumored to want.  
  
But no sensations come to you, except perhaps that slight sting of horror, because even if Pansy makes a fine friend, she doesn't interest you in a remotely physical way.  
  
"Pansy," you whisper, if only because she's so close. Her breath melds with yours in a considerably unromantic manner. She smiles seductively, nodding the slightest bit so that she looks up at you from behind her eyelashes. "What are you trying to do?"  
  
"Give you your birthday present, of course." She laughs, an undesirable raucous giggling. "Don't you want it?"  
  
She asks it in a clearly rhetorical tone, but you answer, "No offense, Pansy, but no, I think I'd rather pass on this one."  
  
Her smile dissipates like morning mist. In one instant she no longer appears to be the temptress that she was; she hunches her back a bit, and raises her arms awkwardly, as if uncertain whether to cover her nearly-bare chest or not. She looks down at the floor as she raises herself up on her feet. She rubs her arms with her hands, and you know she's only pretending to be cold.  
  
"It's not that I don't like you," you clarify, tactful as usual. "But you're not my type, Pansy. I like you as a friend."  
  
She nods briskly, not wanting you to think she's desperate. "Of course. I understand completely, Draco."  
  
"You'd better get dressed."  
  
"I was just about to do that."  
  
With fast, wide steps, she crosses the room to the door and exits with a gentle click.  
  
You lie back and try not to think about Harry.  
  
The next two days are extraordinarily boring. School is more of a menace than usual, and the energy you used to put into it has been exhausted. You finish your homework competently enough, but besides that there is no purpose. Your ears refuse to listen in class, and you lapse into empty daydreams. No, you don't think about Harry much. Nor anything else.  
  
Tuesday evening finds you lazing comfortably in front of the common room fire. The rain outside is a pathetic shower, but the sky is glum enough to have driven everyone inside to catch up on their homework.  
  
You have today's Charms notes in one hand -- a few sentences, some doodles, and random trivia care of Professor Flitwick -- and a quill in another. The quill is not loaded; it's there for ornament.  
  
You are interrupted from your study (or lack thereof) by Preston, who carries a folded piece of parchment sealed with the Malfoy crest.  
  
A letter from your father, plenty of small talk and the command for you to port home and take your presents before they rot. You read once and hurl the letter into the fire, strangely devoid of emotion. Your anger is still there, but frozen in time -- left for display or future reference. Left to fall back to.  
  
You sneer at the flames as you remember that he didn't even wish you a happy birthday.  
  
Not that it would change anything if he did.  
  
You spend the next afternoon researching the origin of gnomes in the library, dragging Crabbe and Goyle along with you. The place is empty and you have a table to yourself, while they share both a table and a book, poring over it with curiosity and wonder you have never thought them capable of. Goyle scratches his head; you shake yours with a small smile and continue working.  
  
Minutes later they begin to speak in hushed tones, but their voices are so deep that you can recognize some of the words. Your name is mentioned, and without a thought, you look up and frown at them. They stare at you, wide-eyed and silent; and then, as if nothing happened, they resume reading.  
  
You wonder what they might be saying about you. 

**_Harry._**  
  
Week Two.  
  
Monday, in the middle of your Potions essay: _Narcissa Malfoy must be well now._  
  
As an afterthought: _So must Lupin. He transformed last week; I expect he's coming back tomorrow. I've had just about enough of Snape in DADA._  
  
The essay is fourteen inches of miniscule handwriting. You never thought you could do it. You never thought library books could contain so much information.  
  
One more inch to go.  
  
"We have three spies," Dumbledore says slowly, "and they work separately. They don't know each other, but they are feeding us the same information, and by this we can rightfully assume they are trustworthy. Harry, the Death Eaters are planning something tremendous. We don't know what it is yet, but we know it has to do with you."  
  
"I understand, sir." You shift in your seat. What is he getting at?  
  
"We need to train you, Harry. The Order, and I especially, have no doubt that you have the potential to be a very powerful wizard. But we need your effort and your time. Can you give us that?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
He nods as slowly as he speaks; this is the way he does everything these days. He is old, and where there is no beard covering his face there are wrinkles. His eyes still twinkle from behind his half-moon spectacles, but it is a muted sort of sparkle, tired over the years. Just the sight of Dumbledore is enough to make you frown wistfully, but when he is before you, you can do nothing but nod and obey -- as a favor; as a debt.  
  
"You may choose who it is you want to help you, as long as he or she is available. It would be better if--"  
  
"Can I ask for Professor Lupin?" you interrupt in one breath. This decision will be the one thing, at least, that is not prophesied to bring you doom.  
  
"Certainly." He nods. "I'll inform him right away, then. You may go."  
  
You stand and exit the office, torn between a smile and anxiety.  
  
You and Remus are to hold training sessions from seven to nine every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Wednesday evening, the first session, you are trying to learn the pronunciation of an extremely complicated hex when he asks if you're all right. There's something about his tone that suggests the question is not about the spell.  
  
"You feel different to me, Harry. What's going on with you?" He sits down, gesturing for you to do the same. You shrug. He combs a hand through his hair to keep it from falling over his eyes. He never manages to remember to get a haircut like he's been meaning to. You don't feel like reminding him, though, because his hair looks quite all right -- good on him, even -- though there is the occasional strand of gray peeking out from behind the rust-colored locks.  
  
He blinks slowly -- or it seems slow to you -- and you notice the bags under his eyes. They are always there a few days before and after the monthly transformation. You cannot bear to wonder what it feels like to be struck tired and ill once a month, and how in the world girls and werewolves have gotten used to it. "Are you fine with where we started?" he asks with concern. "Perhaps we could make the initial hexes lighter, and work up to--"  
  
"No, Remus, where we started is good. I need to be as advanced as I can get."  
  
"But what... How are you and Draco, by the way?"  
  
Of course, it had to come up one way or another.  
  
"We broke up."  
  
"Ah."  
  
But you change the subject and ignore the surprised frown that appears on his face. You try that long hex again, and after a few repetitions he blinks himself to good sense and tells you you've finally got it right, it's time to practice with the wand. Eventually Draco is forgotten.  
  
Thursday. Gryffindor Quidditch practice.  
  
Ron is getting better every week, and as you watch him fend off another Quaffle, you smile proudly to yourself. You don't know if you being team captain has contributed to his skill, but nonetheless you're happy for him, because finally he's found something he can be really good at. Seeing him practice reminds you of the first time you ever flew, and the first time you kissed Draco Malfoy and meant it, and he kissed you and meant it back.  
  
You look away from Ron, some part of you worried that he may sense that you're thinking about Draco again and feel obliged to do something about it, like turn Draco into a ferret. You want no such thing to happen; Draco is only your classmate now, someone you go to school with; you don't even speak with him anymore, really; you'd rather keep it that way than revert to the old enemy stage. You want no bitterness; you only wish to move on.  
  
You glance idly at the stands and you imagine that, among the handful of students watching, there is one with platinum blond hair and a green and silver tie, squinting into the sun to look at you. But there is a flutter at the corner of your view, and you swerve swiftly to the right and cut through the air to capture the Snitch. When you have it resting inside your palm, you fly around and begin to practice feints, refusing to look anywhere but the ground and the sky. 

**_Draco._**  
  
Week Three.  
  
Since you and he don't even look at each other anymore, you think you might get used to this.  
  
But then he bumps into you on the way to the Potions stockroom for ingredients.  
  
But then his eyes are expressionless behind his glasses, a startling green with no emotion. He looks down at the floor and walks right past.  
  
These days you find yourself bored more often than usual, and so you send owls to the entire Slytherin team saying that weekly Quidditch practice starts Wednesday in anticipation of the Slytherin/Hufflepuff match the 31st of January next year. Besides, you can't risk another loss.  
  
Wednesday afternoon you fly and remember him flying. And you try to be free but you can't: you're not him; you'll never be. Without him the sky is a transparent cage. Flying is a task, and your heart has forgotten how to enjoy it.  
  
_Your mother is awake and well. She has been told that her sleep was caused by Bedivere fever. You shall not tell her otherwise. But I need not force you; you know what's good for yourself. Owl back if you will._  
  
You burn the letter. Pansy, obviously troubled, starts with a palm on your shoulder and eventually gives you a comforting back rub.  
  
At one point you close your eyes and imagine Harry--  
  
Then you tell her to stop and thank her with a smile, using homework as an excuse to be left alone. 

**_Harry._**  
  
Week Four.  
  
On the last day of November Dumbledore tells you, "It is recommended that you learn the Killing Curse."  
  
You stare at him, bewildered.  
  
He sounds as tired as ever when he says, "Only if you want to, Harry. But if you remember the prophecy..."  
  
"I'll learn it," you say, if only because you don't think he can come up with another plan. He has protected you all these years; now you have to do it yourself. You cannot risk hurting him and many others in a battle only you are meant to fight.  
  
"It will be hard for you and on you, Harry. Just a warning."  
  
"I can take it."  
  
He nods. "You will begin tomorrow."  
  
You don't need to be told; tomorrow is a Monday, after all. It's routine. "Yes, sir," you reply anyway.  
  
"Another thing, Harry."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Professor Snape will be teaching you."  
  
"You must enunciate every vowel, Potter. It's not _av-duh_. It's _a-vuh-duh._ Some wizards end up killing themselves with mispronunciation. Say it again."  
  
"A-vuh-duh Ki-dav-ruh."  
  
"That will do. Now, for wand movement..."  
  
Snape, albeit stern, is extraordinarily patient and shows no signs of irascibility. You wonder why, but your relief overweighs your curiosity.  
  
"How was it?" Ron asks, peering over Hermione's Transfiguration notes. There is a buzzing in your head and emptiness in your chest. Exhausted, you flop down onto the couch beside him and shut your eyes.  
  
"Where's Hermione?"  
  
"At the library. You look worn out, Harry."  
  
"I am. We worked on some flies. One of them was out for about fifteen minutes. The rest just got dizzy."  
  
"Fifteen is respectable."  
  
"It's a long way from forever."  
  
You can feel Ron shrug. You lean back, eyes closed, for five minutes or so. Then you go upstairs to get some sleep. Homework can wait till tomorrow.  
  
That night you dream of Snape's cold, dimly lit office. Remus is showing you how to flick your wand while saying Avada Kedavra. He gazes at you with the intensity that reminds you of the way he used to look at Sirius: hungry and curious and beckoning at the same time. He comes closer, almost floating. You walk to him, every step echoing on the stone walls.  
  
He places his hand on your shoulder. It slides up, settling warm on the back of your neck. His thumb brushes the line of your jaw.  
  
He is so close his breath blows kisses on your lips--  
  
On Wednesday Remus decides to work outside, at least until it gets dark, because the clouds are a stretched-cotton white and the sky is satin blue, the color of summer and Quidditch. You follow him to the lawn between the pitch and the lake, staring at the soft auburn you wish to run your hands in.  
  
You don't know what last night's dream could possibly have meant. You don't know what you're feeling. It's strange yearning for someone two decades older, especially since--  
  
You shudder. You haven't thought about that in ages, and it's felt wonderful, really. But your mind grasps the memory the same way your hand grasps the Snitch in every match you've ever won: by instinct. How does it remain so fresh?  
  
Remus sits on the grass, smiling at you with his eyes crinkling a little at the edges. You think it's adorable that someone so much older could appear so childlike with the help of good weather. He told you to bring thick robes, and so it's warm except for the early December air on your face. But when you fold your legs under you on the spot beside him, a shiver chills through your spine and you look down at the tiny flowers beside your knees.  
  
"Shall we study the Disillusionment Charm?" he asks cheerfully.  
  
"All right."  
  
He begins, as usual, with a brief history and the charm's theoretical aspects. You stare at the grass, nodding at all the right moments, asking questions, listening to the timbre of his voice.  
  
You run round the lawn with only your body's upper half bathed in the cold chameleon charm; Remus holds a mirror and follows you, and you both laugh at how strange you look as a tree trunk with human legs. And in the midst of this laughter you look past him and at the Quidditch pitch, where you see a familiar figure in green and gray practice robes, spinning in the air on his latest Nimbus. You close your eyes for the briefest moment, imagining the wind in your hair, stinging your cheeks. When Draco flies you feel like you're flying too.  
  
Remus's eyes are hot caramel on the back of your neck. You turn back fast enough for him not to have time to worry.  
  
The next day you walk into the Great Hall for dinner and spot them quite by accident. Pansy Parkinson is gripping Draco's arm and they are laughing at one of his jokes. And then she moves closer, arm slinging around his waist, and he laughs even more.  
  
He's moved on. Perhaps it's time for you to do the same.  
  
After the following evening's training session, you are seated beside Remus in front of his drawing room fire, absorbing the heat. It drizzled a bit but you insisted on mastering the Disillusionment Charm before heading back in, and by the time you did you were both cold, your robes splattered with water. He didn't complain then, and he doesn't now; he closes his eyes as the heat flows over both of you.  
  
And that's when things begin to happen.  
  
Somehow his legs and yours are entangled. Somehow you are pulling him down, clutching him to your chest, as your back lightly hits the couch surface. Somehow he says "Harry" in a hoarse uncertain whisper that sends tremors through your veins. And you press your forehead to his, his nose brushing against yours. He hesitates; somehow you pull him more tightly into your embrace. You shut your eyelids and kiss him, thinking _RemusRemusRemus_ again and again, your fingers in his hair. 

TBC.

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeone[at]yahoo[dot] com) or join my mailing list (groups[dot]yahoo[dot]com[slash]group[slash]essence[underscore]hp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (username: galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	11. Months

**Eleven: Months**

**_Harry._**  
  
Week Five.  
  
That night you dream of the memory, like a Muggle record playing on repeat: you kissing Remus, Remus kissing back, Remus pulling away and saying we shouldn't do this, you in a feverish whisper asking why, him saying you're too young, you saying it doesn't matter, age never matters, all the while trying not to remember that age once made it all the worse, as if anything could make it remotely all right—  
  
And suddenly the memory vanishes like the weak misty Patronus you used to have before Remus taught you how to make it better. Your mind reverts to another one, a default one. Draco and you smile into each other's eyes. It's in the Astronomy Tower drawing room, still with chipped paint and tears in the furniture, but the surroundings don't deserve to be considered. You're with him; that's what's important.  
  
You sit awake sweating, as if your heart was hurled down a bottomless pit and saved only by the sudden opening of your eyelids. It's been a month, and you've done a fairly good job not thinking of him. He's just there: a schoolmate, a Slytherin, an inconsequential student like the rest of them. He stays in the edges of your thought, but he has not dared to step in, and you have not let him.  
  
The problem is that he visits you in your sleep, disturbs you with his beauty, bothers you with his pride. He feeds you the past and, hungry and yearning only to be satisfied, you let him. You let him take you in the moments you are most vulnerable.  
  
Saturday thrives with homework and Quidditch practice. At dinnertime you shift your eyes from your plate to the faculty table. Remus meets your eyes, but you are far enough away not to recognize what he is trying to tell you.  
  
It's awkward, to say the least, because when he asked you to leave after that one kiss last night, he was staring at you with such longing that you could feel it on your skin. Neither of you has tried to talk to the other since, and you wish he would prompt something—anything—to make things all right. You're not quite sure you have the nerve to approach him and do it yourself.  
  
Flying has a way of emptying your mind so that many more things can enter it whenever you stop for a break. You are floating a hundred feet above the ground, eyes closed, breeze in your hair, and you remember that when you kissed him you didn't feel anything but goose bumps and a quiet stir in your groin. There were no invisible hands on your skin, no hard metal digging into your wrists. There was no taste of fear on your tongue. There was no disgust shoving itself into your throat. It was so unlike that Saturday a thousand years ago and you think, maybe, Remus will save you when no one else can.  
  
When you leave the locker room with the rest of the team in your wake, Remus is a shadow against the over-bright sunset, hands in his pockets, examining the grass beneath his feet. You break into a smile and tell your teammates to go ahead. You watch them go until you start feeling stupid for ignoring him. When you walk over he tilts his head up and grins as if surprised, wisps of hair falling over his eyes. The gesture is adorably childlike that you have to chuckle, belying the tremor in your chest.  
  
"Quidditch practice again? Aren't you wearing the team out?"  
  
"The game is on Saturday, and we can't risk losing."  
  
He rolls his eyes. "As usual."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
There is a second of pregnant silence.  
  
And then:  
  
"I was thinking of the other night." Remus shrugs, looking somewhat ashamed.  
  
"So was I," you admit.  
  
"Ah."  
  
The wind rustles the leaves, smelling of green tea and the yawning sun. You wrap your arms around yourself.  
  
Remus says, "Harry, you and I both know that I am twenty-three years—"  
  
"I told you, Remus, it doesn't matter. At least not to me. But if you don't feel that way—which I know you don't..." You let your words trail off, remembering how he clutched onto you so tightly you felt like one body with him, how he sucked on your lips with the passion of a teenager and the hunger of—well—a wolf.  
  
"I'm your professor," he says, desperately trying to convince you. The hopeful glaze in his eyes tells you that he doesn't really want to.  
  
"And I'm your student." It takes you two steps to be within inches of him. He smells like the wine he keeps in his sitting room, the scent just subtle enough to be sweet. You see yourself in his eyes, fringe in wet tendrils sticking to your forehead, green behind black-rimmed glasses reflecting the pink-and-orange sky, an ordinary boy who just wants someone to be with.  
  
You don't pause to ask yourself what he could see in you. You don't pause for anything at all. You close the distance between you and him and it happens all over again, except this time, he forgets to stop.  
  
You do homework in the common room on Tuesday night and when you are about to ask Hermione why asphodel only works when harvested in the nighttime, you realize that neither she nor Ron is anywhere in sight. You stare at their usual workplace for a while, your brow furrowed, because they're _always_ here Tuesday night, trying not to make sweet eyes at each other and failing miserably. But Seamus breaks your reverie when he slams a heavy book down on the table and takes Hermione's seat.  
  
"Hey Seamus, have you seen Ron and Herm anywhere?"  
  
He shrugs. "They said they were going to the Owlery. I think they just wanted to have a quick snog, though."  
  
"Right." Where else could they be? The library? The thought almost makes you laugh. Ron would never consent to going to the library with _anyone_ this late on a school night. He always said it might tempt him to stay up reading, which didn't prove to be a problem until he and Hermione got together.  
  
_They're so lucky,_ you suddenly think.  
  
Perhaps someday you and Remus...  
  
Or perhaps not.  
  
You go back to your homework.  
  
At breakfast the next day Ron and Hermione enter the Great Hall together fashionably late, holding hands and smiling like Gryffindor just won the House Cup. You fell asleep before Ron came in last night; when you awoke early in the morning he was surprisingly motionless on his bed, his mouth hanging open from what you could only think of as exhaustion. But now, seeing them, you're beginning to change your mind.  
  
A treacherous voice inside you cries out in jealousy, but you want to feel happy for them so you do, standing up and giving them a huge hug to say that they have your love and full support. The traitor complains: Why are only some people lucky enough to lose their virginity to those they love? Everyone deserves the right. You think: Because I'm Harry Potter, and my very birth was a misfortune.  
  
They're laughing at one of Dean's jokes and you're laughing along.  
  
Feels just like the old times.  
  
Remus greets you with a question whether Snape treated you all right on Monday evening, and you tell him without thinking, "Last night Ron and Hermione..."  
  
He raises his eyebrows, invites you to take a seat on the couch, and sits beside you. His hand falls close enough to yours to hold without requiring flirtation, and you do so. He hesitates before he entangles his fingers in yours.  
  
You rub the back of his hand with your thumb. It is smooth like silk like youth like Draco's, but you don't remember this consciously and so you shake your head with a grin. "Everyone in the school knows. They're all lovey-dovey. They obviously slept together last night, even if they'll neither confirm nor deny it, and why they chose a Tuesday is far beyond me. But."  
  
"But?"  
  
"The point is that I realized you've never told me anything. I was just wondering..."  
  
"Of course you are. Aren't we all?"  
  
"So tell me about yours." You edge closer in attempt to convince him, looking directly into his eyes because that's always a measure of sincerity, or so you've heard. You are smiling stupidly but you don't care. "Whom did you lose yours to?"  
  
Amused, he shakes his head hastily, hair flying in all directions. It really does look good on him. "I don't think this is the time to discuss this."  
  
"Why not." You frown.  
  
"Because, Harry, my personal life—"  
  
"Come _on,_ Remus, you've kissed me, for Merlin's sake. Tell me."  
  
In the end, of course, he tells you, because you refuse to start the training session until he does. It was to Sirius at the end of sixth year. They had been a couple since October of the year before, but they waited for the right moment, and the day before summer seemed like the best one. When you ask Remus how it was, nostalgia glazes his eyes and a small smile finds its way to his face. He is silent for a few moments, as if in a trance, and you know the answer right away. He says, "It was good; it was his first time, too, and he was great about it," but he's trying hard to sound like an adult, even if he's bubbling inside.  
  
"I miss him," you say.  
  
He nods. "So do I."  
  
You bury your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in. You think about Sirius and your father and Draco, the people you miss and used to love and maybe still do.  
  
On Saturday Gryffindor wins to Hufflepuff 240-70. Remus cheers merrily in the stands. Draco is nowhere in sight.  
  
Not that you're trying to look for him. 

**_Draco._**  
  
"Who won?" you greet, but Pansy says "Gryffindor" at the exact moment, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "As usual. Why didn't you go, anyway? I thought you wanted to learn their moves."  
  
"Certainly, but I didn't feel like seeing Potter's face again. It makes me want to—" Kiss him to oblivion? Ravage him in the showers? "—kick something."  
  
"I know what you mean, but I still think you should've gone." You watch her take off and fold up her winter clothes: cloak, scarf, jacket. She places them neatly on the couch and takes a seat beside you. Harry would never be this neat, you think, and proceed trying to eradicate him from your conscious thoughts. "I'm sure you could endure his face for an hour or two for the sake of the House. No one here is as good at remembering Quidditch tactics as you." As she speaks she trails her fingers down to your chest, her touch so gentle you can hardly feel it. Her breath smells like today's lunch, and the moment is so unabashedly unromantic that you want to go to the bathroom and hurl.  
  
"Well, yes, I _do_ have a knack for remembering play-by-plays," you reply with a flattered grin. She smiles at you from behind her long eyelashes.  
  
"So, Draco, I was wondering if you were dating anyone. Just curious, I suppose."  
  
"No, I'm not," you force yourself to reply. For one thing, saying yes would mean gossip and consequential murder. You'd rather skip the oblique glances and the hushed whispers.  
  
"Then I guess it will only be appropriate if I..."  
  
_Good God,_ you think, but by then it's too late.  
  
You cough.  
  
She extricates her tongue from yours and furrows her brow with concern. "What's wrong?"  
  
The bile is rising up your throat and in the back of your mind you see salvation: a toilet bowl and an empty stomach. Your eyes water as you try to keep it down. "Pansy, I think I'm gonna be sick." Which is true but perhaps not in the way she might think. You cough twice more for emphasis, a hand over your throat, and turn around to run to the bathroom.  
  
"Since you said you had a headache," she says, placing a tray on the nightstand, "I got you some chicken noodle soup from the kitchens."  
  
"Oh. Pansy... you didn't have to." You're feeling much better now, admittedly because she's no longer trying to seduce you. "But if you'll excuse me..."  
  
"Yes, of course. You need some rest, don't you? I'll leave you alone, then, but if you need anything, just wail."  
  
"Right. Thanks."  
  
She leaves.  
  
Fragrant smoke is blowing above the soup. You stare at the bowl. The bowl that Pansy Parkinson, of all people, brought up for you.  
  
_Good God._  
  
Week Six.  
  
_Your mother and I are going to Switzerland for the holidays. Would you like to come with us? If not, you'll have to stay at Hogwarts as there will be no one to look after you at home._  
  
You look out the window at the snow falling in small, dust-like particles on the white-powdered world below. You are stuck in an empty classroom on the sixth floor because Pansy is down at the common room and is probably waiting for you to come back from your brief trip to 'the library.' It's only Wednesday afternoon and you're supposed to be doing homework, but she just might go up to the library to look for you, and you'd really prefer to be alone right now. She's been smothering you more than usual these days, so much that you cannot wait for the holidays to come, even if it means being one of the few lonely seventh years in Slytherin for two weeks.  
  
_No,_ you reply to your father's note. You resist the urge to add something more, a pleasantry or an insult, and fasten the piece of parchment to Preston's leg. He flies off with it into the closing day.  
  
"Incendio," you murmur, and Lucius's note burns into dust.  
  
"You're not going?" she shrieks, shocked.  
  
You find it difficult to hide the secret satisfaction in your drawl: "I'm not. Hogwarts is a fine place to spend the holidays, anyway. Wonderful here, really."  
  
Pansy frowns. And thinks. And frowns even more. "All right, then." She heads for the girls' dorms.  
  
Nonplussed: "Where are you going?"  
  
"Unpacking, of course. _Someone's_ got to stay with you for the holidays."  
  
It is only when she has disappeared that you realize what she meant.  
  
Merlin.  
  
After dinner a Slytherin first year approaches you and says that Snape wants to meet you in his office. The student looks both afraid and proud of himself. You forget to terrorize him, distracted with Snape's request. There couldn't possibly be anything wrong; life is sweet as usual, and the Incident with Harry is old news. You haven't spoken with Snape since he told you what he knew.  
  
Perhaps something new has transpired?  
  
You hasten to his office. When you're in the dungeons, standing in front of his door, your breathing is quick and there is a hodgepodge of ideas dueling in your mind. You inhale deeply and, with an anxiously tight fist, rap three times on the door. He mutters a "Come in" and you push it open.  
  
He is busy with his paperwork, and that, at least, is a sign that this isn't serious enough to merit a tidy desk. He asks you to sit down, and when you do he looks up at you, frowning. "Draco, I'll make this quick. I have been informed by your teachers about your unsatisfactory performance the past weeks."  
  
You blink.  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"That's it?! Do you realize what a difference these weeks will make in your record? Do you not know the effects of a seemingly innocuous bout of laziness and inattention?"  
  
"But Professor," you begin, oddly relieved, and you want to jump up and laugh just because, "I've been completing all of my tasks well enough, and I—"  
  
"The reports I have gotten clearly say that you have not. Yes, you've been completing your tasks, but your past assignments have been completed seemingly with the mindset of a second year. You have made it obvious, Draco, that you merely want to get your requirements over with—and I must say this attitude definitely does not live up to the expectations of the faculty. Is there anything you would like to tell me? Any problems, perhaps?"  
  
"No," you say immediately, and resolve to work harder. It's embarrassing enough that the other professors are concerned; you don't think you could live with the Head of Slytherin House's disappointment as well. You don't want Snape, of all people, to think you're pathetic.  
  
"Draco, breakups may be hard work, but—"  
  
You gape.  
  
"—Yes, I've conjectured it for some time now, seeing as you and Potter have stopped making eyes at each other—but moving on is a priority, and that includes making the best out of your education. You should be glad your father is still paying for it, might I add—"  
  
"What father," you interrupt without much thought.  
  
The silence hangs precariously between you.  
  
And since you've begun it anyway, you might as well continue: "My father pays for my education because he has not attained his own. That's in Professorspeak. What I really mean is, he can very well sod off. Please don't mention him again, Professor, and I promise to do better next term. Thank you for the concern."  
  
His beetle black eyes burn through yours, narrow but surprised. With a slight nod, you head out the door.  
  
You, Pansy, Crabbe, and Millicent Bulstrode are the only Slytherin seventh years who aren't going home for the holidays. Crabbe asks Bulstrode out for the Hogsmeade weekend, whereupon you promptly decide you don't feel like going. Pansy, however, urges you to have a good time and start the holidays right, and somehow convinces you to put on your winter clothes and go out with her. The Saturday is then wasted on sweets and her quickly dulling companionship.  
  
When the two of you return to Hogwarts a grand Christmas tree greets you in the Entrance Hall. It has fairy dust for tinsel and sleepily blinking lights and miniature fires in azure and lavender. "It's beautiful," Pansy says, eyes mystified and childlike, sparkling with the ornaments.  
  
"It is." You gaze at one small purple flame, amused at how its sky blue center looks like time and space eternal.  
  
"Really?" Pansy asks, turning to you.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Pansy shakes her head slowly, a smile spreading across her lips. "You're not who I thought you were, Draco."  
  
"I never am." You take her by the wrist and pull her toward the Great Hall before anything gets too mushy. Harry is staring in the direction of the faculty table as if listening to the their conversation, his eyes so intent you wish they were fixed on you instead. Then he turns his head to the Slytherin table and you examine your food. Pansy is speaking animatedly with Bulstrode and fails to notice the color creeping up your cheeks. You're rather glad she doesn't.  
  


**_Harry._**  
  
Week Seven.  
  
On Sunday morning you and Ron enter the Great Hall with sleepy smiles on your faces. Hermione is on vacation with her parents but that didn't stop you from feasting on sweets and drinking Butterbeer until you saw yellow last night. Today is the second day of Christmas break and it feels wonderful not to be busy with schoolwork. What with your newfound diligence during the last weeks of first term, you've almost forgotten how it is to have no pedantic burden.  
  
But before you reach the Gryffindor table Draco and Pansy Parkinson strut in, and before you know it Pansy has an arm akimbo and is leering down her nose at you, which is an admirable feat seeing as she's a head shorter. "Why, look who's here. I admit I expected to see you still here, Potter, but I wonder why Weasley's hanging around?" She turns to Ron. "Does your family have no space to take you in, or are you here only to share a room alone with him? A bed, perhaps?"  
  
"Pansy, maybe—" Draco begins, but Ron interrupts:  
  
"Jealous, aren't you? I'm only glad _I_ don't have to go past a pug and a gorilla—not to mention my own pig snout—to get what I want."  
  
"Pig snout, eh? At least _I_ can—"  
  
"Sod off, Parkinson."  
  
"Fuck you, Weasley!"  
  
"_Stop it,_" you mutter to Ron before it can turn ugly.  
  
"Pansy, let's just go, all right?" Draco mumbles. He spares you a millisecond glance and his eyes are dark gray and unreadable. Then he wrenches her arm and drags her away to the Slytherin table.  
  
Ron is seething, as expected. He spews a few expletives and then, "Malfoy should really teach his girlfriend how to shut up!" whereupon you look at your shoes and resume silence.  
  
"I..." Ron starts hesitantly, but you let out a laugh that sounds as fake as it really is.  
  
"Come on, Ron, it's all right. We've been over forever."  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, as if he knows you more than you know yourself.  
  
"God, I missed you, why do you have to turn into an effing werewolf all the time." You push his back to the door, trailing small kisses on his neck. Remus releases a throaty moan, out of breath all of a sudden. You smile into his skin.  
  
"Um. So, Harry, what did you do today?" he asks innocently, pressing the backs of his ankles to the door to evade your crotch, but he only makes the situation worse for himself because you step forward and completely envelop his legs in between your own. You grind against him, surprised even at your own daring; he gasps involuntarily; he places his hands on your shoulders and begins to push you away.  
  
"Harry, you're such a teenager, can we please deal with this calmly..."  
  
"Deal with what?" You raise an eyebrow, taking time to examine his flustered expression, before parting your lips and capturing his.  
  
"With—mmph—wuth yer—ah—" He manages to pull away. "With your hormones, of course."  
  
You kiss him again and, struck speechless, he returns the favor. You want him so badly and you don't know why. You are hard against his thigh and he knows it too, because while he runs his hand up your neck he is trying to shift to his left to escape. You nearly chuckle at this, a grown-up man avoiding an over-hormonal teenage boy. It sounds like a bad movie plot.  
  
And then, in the same moment you pull away, breathless, your lips and the tip of your tongue swollen with pleasure, you realize why he wanted to adjust his position.  
  
"My hormones?" You slide your palm down, down to the fly of his trousers, down to the embarrassing tent it has been reduced to. "Or yours?"  
  
"Good God, Harry, I don't feel very comfortable—"  
  
"I'll say." You smirk. "Can I take your clothes off?"  
  
He gapes, horrified.  
  
"You don't _have_ to say yes..."  
  
"Yes. Yes, Harry, I—no! I meant no! Merlin..."  
  
You are working on his zipper, but he swats your hand away, slides across the wall, and thus extricates himself from your grasp. He walks to his couch, sits down, and begins to tap his shoes madly on the floor, obviously distressed.  
  
You ignore your aching erection, shove your hands in your pockets, and wait.  
  
He clears his throat. "Well. I don't know what _that_ was about, Harry, but—"  
  
"Wasn't it obvious enough what that was about?"  
  
"Harry," he says, meeting your eyes. "I don't want it to be awkward between us... or... it's just that..."  
  
You sigh softly. You'd guessed this would happen, of course. Not that you gave yourself enough time to think. You're not sure what came over you.  
  
Slightly humiliated, you step back. "Do you want me to go?"  
  
"No, no." He shakes his head quickly. "If you want to stay, you could. We could talk. But listen to me, Harry."  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"You're on the rebound. You shouldn't be making any rash decisions. You shouldn't even be—"  
  
"That was a month and a half ago, Remus!"  
  
"But are you over it yet?"  
  
You brush off his question. "I _want you,_" you say slowly, like a crucial argument or a secret revealed. The room is quiet for a moment, absorbing the revelation or cringing at it. Remus stops tapping his feet. The fire silences its crackling. You hold your breath. A gasp in time.  
  
But Remus stands and says, "We should really discuss this first. You don't even know how _I_ feel, Harry, how could you entrust your emotions so easily?"  
  
"I trust you," You plead with your eyes for something you cannot recognize.  
  
"Listen to me. Maybe... maybe we can... take things further between us. Someday. But not now."  
  
"Why..." you begin, but you know you have no choice.  
  
Inside you still gapes the loss of something you could have had.  
  
You don't fully understand it yet.  
  
But you trust him, and when he opens his arms, you throw yourself into them and sigh against his shoulder.  
  
Remus is reading when you wake up with your head in his lap. Yawning, you sit up and languidly stretch. Your neck is sore from the elevation, but the tingles in your skin refresh you. Remus closes his book. You ask him what time it is. He checks his watch and replies: half past midnight. You yawn again, but oddly enough you don't feel too sleepy, as if you got an entire night's rest. You stand up, glancing thoughtfully at the fire and thinking how there is nothing of the sort at the Gryffindor dorm room. But Remus says, "You'd better get going."  
  
You nod. "Right. I'll see you on Wednesday. I mean, tomorrow."  
  
"Yes." He stands, walking over to the door with the businesslike strides of someone who has to get rid of something but doesn't want to. You chuckle at his seriousness, and he offers you a smile you don't know what to make out of. You long to touch him as you walk past; but you know you should take it slow if you decide to 'take it' at all, and so you manage not to give in to the temptation.  
  
"Bye," you call out behind you, voice lingering as if to guarantee tomorrow's tryst.  
  
"Bye," he calls back, and you make your way to the Gryffindor tower, hoping that the Fat Lady doesn't kill you when you wake her up.  
  
She doesn't. When you enter the common room Ron is staring at a copy of _Hogwarts: A History,_ his face screwed up as if totally unable to understand any of the content. He takes one look at you and attempts to hide the book, but seems to think the better of it and says instead, "What were you doing out so late?"  
  
"Just hanging out with Remus," you answer lightly. Caught.  
  
"Hanging out? Till midnight?" His left brow is raised in calculated interest.  
  
You shrug.  
  
"You don't look very tired."  
  
"I never said we were _training_ or anything."  
  
You blush.  
  
Caught.  
  
Instead of the teasing reply you expect from him, he frowns slightly and, voice careful as ever, asks: "What about Draco?"  
  
It's the last thing you need. You move past him without a reply and go up to the dorms. You huff to yourself as you undress for bed, wondering what's wrong with the world. First Remus mentions Draco and now Ron does. Draco is ancient history, and _you,_ at least, should be the one to remember him while everyone tries to help you forget, not the other way around. Is Draco that important? Was your relationship that special?  
  
You lie between the sheets with your eyes closed, thinking about how Remus makes you feel tingly and young and new, like the Harry you were before, the Harry you were happy with. You think about how he makes you feel nothing but pleasure, and how Draco made you feel caged in your own skin.  
  
You greet sleep once more, and dream of Remus and Ron and how they are clinging to mistakes they don't think you can let go of.  
  
Christmas Eve is the perfect day to discover that you can kill with only your wand at rapid succession. The flies drop like flies, and so do the large flesh-eating slugs Hagrid has kindly collected for you. Remus's proud smile fails to reach his eyes, and you think he might be torn between being glad and being afraid. He can be so overprotective; you want to shake him and say that Dumbledore put you through this, and if he thinks it's okay then it should be. But you leave Remus to his worries, glad that at least some things on earth have not yet been shot to hell.  
  
You feel nothing when, on Christmas morning, you see Draco and Pansy kissing under mistletoe. But Ron takes your arm and wrenches you away. 

**_Draco._**  
  
Week Eight.  
  
Because Pansy has once again attempted to seduce you in the middle of your catching up with your schoolwork, and you would rather play in the snow and shun your dignity than let her continue, you find yourself in the powder-white Hogwarts lawn getting ready for the interhouse snowball fight. Slytherin-Ravenclaw against Gryffindor-Hufflepuff. Crabbe is rubbing his palms against each other, obviously excited for the barbaric match. You square your shoulders, beginning to map out the direction in which to escape.  
  
The game begins. Ron Weasley throws a ball at terrified Slytherin Malcolm Baddock. Michael Corner gets Colin Creevey on the face. His brother Dennis dangles in the air, held up by the fat right hand of Crabbe, who is forcing snow into his mouth. Euan Abercrombie from Gryffindor pelts mud-mixed snowballs in rapid succession at Graham Pritchard.  
  
With wide eyes you watch the disaster unfold.  
  
You turn toward the forest. You run like the wind.  
  
You crash violently into something and fall on your back in a puff of snow.  
  
"Ow," you croak, stretching your spine to feel if it's still working.  
  
"You should watch where you're going," he says, and at the first syllable you know who he is.  
  
He stands above you, a giggle on his dry lips, his snow-stung cheeks ablush. You scowl automatically, but inside your stomach rises.  
  
Harry offers his hand and you look at it for what seems like a full minute. You can only hope he didn't notice; you grab it and let him help you stand up. Despite the frigid weather, his palm is warm as you remember it in the nights you spent at the Astronomy Tower, curling up together in front of the fire. His eyes are the color you have almost forgotten, green and furious and peaceful. He stands like he used to, shoves his hands in his pockets like he used to. Speaks with you like he used to. He does not look changed.  
  
But the present is changed, and when you mirror his habit, placing your hand in your jacket pocket—the hand he held just a moment ago, tingling with his warmth—you tell him, "Merry Christmas," and pronounce it like a goodbye.  
  
You have said goodbye to him so many times, it seems, and it feels as much like self-torture as the first.  
  
"Merry Christmas," he answers smoothly, even if Christmas is over and this is clearly just an excuse for small talk. He takes his hands out of his pockets and picks up some snow from the ground, shaping it into a ball for lack of nothing to do. "What have you been up to?"  
  
"Oh, things. School, mostly. I'm trying to catch up." It doesn't occur to you until it's too late that you are admitting defeat. He's not supposed to know how things have taken a turn for the worse since... the separation.  
  
But then, why should it matter?  
  
"You?"  
  
He shrugs, still fiddling with the snow. "I've been training. I can... do more advanced spells now." He doesn't elaborate, but you think you may know what he's learned. You're afraid for him, all of a sudden. Because of this, you are struck inarticulate.  
  
An awkward silence passes.  
  
"Um," you begin.  
  
"Yeah," he says, firing his snowball.  
  
"Tired, hon?" Pansy greets, entering the common room from the girls' dorms. You ignore her, continuing to stare at the fire before which your fingers are spread as if to catch the heat. Your chilled cheeks are beginning to feel like your own skin again, and you sigh in relief.  
  
"Why don't we go to your room," Pansy suggests, turning on her nonexistent charm, "and let me give you a nice back rub?"  
  
"I don't really feel like it, Pansy. In fact, I don't really like you, so please stop trying to flirt with me."  
  
She rolls her eyes and leaves. You can tell from her confident footsteps that she's not planning to back off.  
  
You lean back, thinking about today and how Gryffindor-Hufflepuff completely lost and how you hit Harry with two snowballs for every one he aimed at you. And how he reached out his hand when you fell, and how he looked so normal, so _Harry,_ like nothing ever happened between you and him or him and Lucius. Harry looked like he erased the past and revised the present, and Obliviated all his memories away.  
  
You wonder, was that how he got over his parents' death? Cedric's? His godfather's? How he overcame ten years of hell and six more summers besides?  
  
It's his only way, you realize. He has no choice but to move on. He's the Boy Who Lived; that's what he does.  
  
You wish...  
  
But no.  
  
You only want the best for him.  
  
If that happens to be a life without you, then so be it.  
  
You were never meant for each other anyway.  
  
TBC.

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeoneatyahoodot com) or join my mailing list (groupsdotyahoodotcomslashgroupslashessenceunderscorehp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (username: galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	12. Unfolded

**Twelve: Unfolded**

**_Harry._**  
  
It is the twelfth of January, beginning of the second school week of the new year. You have just finished your evening shower and, tired though you are because of today's successful training session with Snape, you find yourself walking down the corridor to Remus's rooms. The romantic encounter a few weeks ago is long past, of course, and its vestiges have all but vanished. You and he have a tacit understanding: you are attracted to each other but remain friends for more reasons than the evident. There is the occasional tingling touch here and there, but the situation is more comfortable than it would be with anyone else it might be applied to. Draco included.  
  
You and Remus comprehend each other. This is perhaps one of the reasons it is better to stay friends.  
  
His rooms don't take too long to reach. You draw your shoulders up and smirk at the mahogany door you have come to know so well. You raise a fist to knock; but at that moment the door opens abruptly, surprising you out of your wits, and who should walk out but Severus Snape.  
  
He looks as shocked to see you as you are to see him. You nod your head in courtesy. He lifts his, as if wondering what in the wizarding world you are doing outside Remus's door. He goes past with the usual swish of his cloak and a whiff of potions and anxiety. You watch him go for a moment. Soon you remember what you came here to do and turn back to Remus's door, behind which he is already standing to receive you.  
  
Instead of the customary smile, he greets you with a worried frown, and it makes you worried as well. Snape. Remus frowning. This evening is full of bad signs, and already you dread what is coming.  
  
"Sit down," he says distractedly, gesturing with his hand toward the sofa. "I would like to... Harry, there's something... All right."  
  
He sits on the armchair across you. The fire crackles at your left, but it gives no real warmth. Your blood is cold because he has never sat anywhere but beside you on the couch. He nods slightly to himself, and you have the idea he has a checklist in his mind: make Harry sit down, sit in front of him, tell him bad news—  
  
Except what bad news can there be? It can't be about Voldemort: Dumbledore would be the one to inform you of anything. It can't be about your grades: you've been doing so well so far, and you nearly got into the top ten last term, everything's brilliant. You somehow have a suspicion that it's something he and Snape discussed just a minute ago. But Snape probably had nothing important to speak of besides the disappointing results of your self-defense-murder training, which would be completely untrue. You're on the way to being a professional, if you do say so yourself.  
  
Remus clears his throat. "Professor Snape told me something very... disturbing."  
  
You lift your eyebrows, amused despite the gravity in his tone. Snape is always disturbing, anyway, even when he doesn't speak. (Or maybe _especially_ when he doesn't speak.)  
  
"Harry," Remus continues, "Do you remember what happened on the twenty-fifth of October last year?"  
  
In the same moment, you know that you're in trouble. Initially you think, _please let it be something else._ But then you think, _How did Snape know?_ Suddenly mismatched questions swirl uncontrollably, melting in your chest with the heat of knowing that anyone but Draco and his father in on the secret cannot be good. You try to hold your breath lest you end up hyperventilating. You keep your expression neutral and reply, "I don't remember anything notable."  
  
A twinge of guilt stings you inside because this is Remus, one of the people you trust most. You have always disliked lying, even if it was necessary.  
  
"Are you sure?" Remus's eyes are narrowed, gentle but suspicious, and mostly worried.  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
He fixes you with a smoldering glare and says, gravity hoarse in his voice, "Don't lie to me, Harry. Please."  
  
You look back at him, just keep looking until you have to hunch your shoulders and transfer your stare to your knees. You berate yourself for being weak. But a part of you says that you're better off telling the truth. Getting it over with.  
  
So you take a deep breath.  
  
"What did Snape tell you?"  
  
"That you—that Draco's father—I didn't want to believe him. But he was so serious, and in the end—Harry, I want to hear it from you. Please tell me he's lying."  
  
It feels like a burden and a catharsis all at once when you reply.  
  
"He wasn't."  
  
The words swing precariously for an uncomfortable moment. You never wanted Remus to know, and you never planned for him to find out. You share your misfortunes with so much of the wizarding world already; there is no point in sharing this one. But when he blinks in sadness and disbelief you feel almost as if a gray curtain has lifted and given you perfect vision; between you and Remus everything has turned clear, true; there are no lies or hidden truths or the weight of colossal secrets.  
  
You tell him everything. It is uncomfortable at first, but behind the melancholy in his eyes there is concern and the eagerness to understand. You think that maybe deep inside he loves you.  
  
In the end you tell him everything until there are furious tears forming in his eyes and he holds them back because he has to be strong for you. You almost tell him you can be strong for yourself, but you don't, because it feels good, once in a while, to have someone holding on in your stead.  
  
Like Draco used to do. 

**_Draco._**  
  
In Pansy's sultry brown eyes and lips so close you can no longer see them, you recognize that you have really, _really_ had enough.  
  
You haven't even been _talking_ to her, for Merlin's sake, much less flirting. Why in the unfortunate world does she insist on being intimate with you?  
  
This, you think, is why girls are not your type.  
  
Now if only Pansy knew that.  
  
You push her away, gently because you still care about your reputation, and tell her to please sod off.  
  
"What do you mean, sod off?" she asks, clueless as a lamb.  
  
"Pansy Parkinson, I never thought I would have to say this, because frankly I'm quite good at making implications, but _I don't like you._ Do you understand that? Now please, let's just be friends."  
  
She frowns. She doesn't do it in an instant, no, but her supposedly sexy smile dissipates in well over ten seconds and a sad push of the lips follows it. Her eyes begin to glaze with the blow of rejection; in a minute they are so shiny you think she might start to cry. She is still on all fours half on top of you and it's funny, if only just a bit. Slowly, she transfers her weight from her arms to her knees, sits on her calves on the sofa, each movement accompanied by a creak of leather. Then she unfolds her legs and places her feet flat on the floor. She stands; the couch creaks with the removal of weight; she smoothes down her blouse and skirt, pulls on her robes, and says, suddenly visited by coherence, "Why didn't you tell me before?"  
  
You cannot help smirking. "I tried."  
  
"Well, at least... now I know."  
  
"But we _will_ be still friends, right?"  
  
"Right," she replies dismissively. You can't blame her; she's in a daze. You resist the urge to giggle.  
  
"You didn't _really_ like me, did you?" you suggest to lighten the mood. "Maybe you were just lonely."  
  
"I don't know," she says. "I thought you liked me, actually, and you just had a funny way of showing it. Because you've never mentioned anyone else, and how am I to know...? I don't even know what kind of people you like, really. I'm sorry if I..." she gestures helplessly with her hands, smiling in embarrassment.  
  
"Don't worry about it." You smile back: a real smile.  
  
She nods, walking out of the common room. It is only when the stone slab slides closed that you realize the strangeness of the conversation.  
  
She doesn't know what kind of people you like, she said.  
  
You smile to yourself.  
  
_I like Harry._  
  
Suddenly—  
  
Perhaps it is because of Pansy's utter humiliation, or her utter naiveté; perhaps because of what she said, or what you now remember; perhaps because his touch that grievous October day still tingles on the back of your hand, that day when the fire was as warm as his soul and both your hearts were as cold as fear—  
  
Suddenly everything falls into place. 

**_Harry._**  
  
After your story Remus appears as if he has aged ten years; his eyes are numb with anger, his voice choked with sadness. By now he knows—he _should_ know—that there is nothing that can be done. The past is passed; the wound may not have healed fully, but it's on its way; every memory remembered stings but only makes you stronger. You chest aches with bitterness but soon it will disappear, and you will feel all the better because of it.  
  
You choose not to dwell on the incident any further. Instead you ask him, "How did Snape know?"  
  
Remus tells you. Once again you are surprised and amazed by the way Snape is concerned about you despite his initial abhorrence. Snape is not a caring person—you know that much; but he is one with a debt to pay and is honorable enough to do so. He is also strangely observant. You cannot be sure if this is a good thing.  
  
You ask Remus why Snape chose to spill the secret now, months after it happened.  
  
"He was worried about Draco, so he guessed I might be worried about you. To tell you the truth, I wasn't, but now..."  
  
"What's wrong with Draco? Is he all right?"  
  
After you say it you are struck by your immediate concern.  
  
"Grades." He shrugs. "I think he told me what happened only because yours are getting higher and Draco's much lower; knowing Snape, he probably thinks it's unfair, and cares about not much else." By the light in his eyes you can tell he's trying to make you feel better. But you don't.  
  
"Draco's grades are getting lower...?" you murmur almost to yourself, imagining the way it could possibly have happened. Draco's performance has _never_ deteriorated; as far as you know, he has only been improving since first year. Could he possibly—does he keep hoping—does he still think...  
  
"Harry, there's something I need to know."  
  
You snap out of your confused reverie.  
  
"Did Draco's father tell you why he did it?"  
  
Remus is afraid of mentioning what 'it' was. Perhaps you could call it 'You-Know-What.'  
  
You repeat what you said a while ago, which maybe he missed: "He didn't like me and Draco together."  
  
He shakes his head. "No, besides that."  
  
You narrow your eyes, trying to remember. The details are a bit hazy.  
  
And then you shrug. "That's it. I don't recall him mentioning anything else. I mean, what else could it be? That he liked me?" You chuckle, surprising yourself with how easily the laugh comes.  
  
But Remus is thoughtful, and his face seems to have paled.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Never mind it. Never mind." His eyes are distracted, as if he has something to hide.  
  
He asks you if you want to talk. You tell him, as politely as possible, that you've talked enough and that you would just like to get some sleep. He understands immediately and dismisses you.  
  
"See you on Wednesday," you tell him before you go out to the hall.  
  
You slowly walk down the corridor, thinking about what's changed now that he knows. Everything? Or nothing?  
  
You don't get to think too long, though.  
  
Draco Malfoy appears from behind the corner and strolls straight toward you.

TBC.

Please review.

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeoneatyahoodot com) or join my mailing list (groupsdotyahoodotcomslashgroupslashessenceunderscorehp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (username: galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	13. Summons

**Thirteen: Summons**

**_Draco._**  
  
A year ago you had asked Harry a question and watched the fire, waiting for his answer. The Astronomy tower drawing room smelled like moonlight and the flames; you were content in breathing it in until you realized he was silent. You thought he hadn't heard you, and turned to your right to face him and ask again. But he was looking at you: not for his eyes to absorb your image and bring it to his brain for future reference, no: he was looking at you with a smile on his lips; his eyes were dark with desire; they were beckoning to you. He nodded slightly. You stood, crossed the one step to his chair, and leaned over him. He pulled you into his embrace. The seat was large enough for you to climb in, supported by your knees, straddling him. His face moved closer, and you thought he was going to kiss you on the mouth; but instead he buried his nose in the crook between your neck and shoulder, whispering, "I'll never forget you."  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Harry, of course."  
  
Hermione narrows her eyes at you, trying not to look apprehensive. "Why do you want to talk to him?"  
  
"I want him back."  
  
An eternity passes.  
  
She sighs. "Malfoy—"  
  
"Please. I love him."  
  
You surprise even yourself.  
  
"He... oh, Malfoy, I don't... Are you sure that..." She is silent for a moment, and then finally resolves the debate with herself. "I think he's with Lupin."  
  
"Thank you," you say, and run.  
  
You slid a hand up his neck to his hair, combing the soft, messy locks upward. The scent of his shampoo was intoxicating but he was more, and you knew you were making a promise when you said, "I'll never forget you either, Harry." And you wondered why he had said it in the first place: if he thought his doom was coming, if he thought you were on the verge of a breakup. If he was only making sure you cared about him, because after years of bitterness there might have been some left in your heart. You wanted to prove that it had dissipated, all of it. But there was nothing you could do except to pull him close. And that was what you did, and everything turned out all right.  
  
Before turning the corner, you slow your pace and slide your hands down your hair, checking if it's all right. Composure matters, after all. Your heart is pounding against your ribs and you're afraid you'll croak out your first real, friendly greeting in months. You realize all of a sudden how you should have rehearsed this, should have thought of at least one idea of what to say.  
  
But you and Harry's relationship started with no planning whatsoever, and despite the initial misgivings, it carried on fine. Until It happened, of course.  
  
With Harry, you learned to trust your instincts, and you would like to depend on them now.  
  
You stay still for a minute to catch up on your breathing. In a moment you will turn the corner and walk smoothly to Lupin's door and knock and ask politely, "May I please speak with him awhile?" And then you will proceed with the plan, though it is still nebulous as of now. But Harry will agree and you pray that it will work the way you want it to. You and Harry deserve it.  
  
You inhale deeply and walk round the corner. 

**_Harry._**  
  
You watch Draco. You count his steps.  
  
His brisk stride tells you he has a concrete destination and, like it or not, that destination is you.  
  
Your legs, torn between sprinting to him and running away, dare not move.  
  
"We can't let him win," Draco greets, breathless.  
  
He is a yard away from you, his eyes seeking yours, and you don't know what to say, or whether you should say anything at all. The time you met in the snowball fight at Christmas seems less awkward than now: your heart flutters and thuds at random intermissions. You command it to stay still, but to no avail.  
  
"Can't let _who_ win?" your voice asks, though you cannot remember telling it to. You are immediately aware that this might be the strangest conversation you and Draco will ever have—jabs before sixth year included.  
  
He doesn't blink. "My father."  
  
You shudder, because after all the memory will always be there. You understand what Draco is trying to say. You understand why. But you cannot agree.  
  
"Draco—"  
  
Your voice is about to say it's a bad idea, but he interrupts: "I'm not asking for anything except for us to start talking again. Do you think you could do that?"  
  
Draco is as suave and collected as he has ever been and you are a nervous wreck. You find that there is nothing you can reply with save a nod so small that you consider doing it again to make sure. But he looks into your eyes and you see that the windows of his soul have opened—perhaps a bit wider—and you know he has received your answer. He holds your gaze; in the end it is so painful that you duck your head to look away.  
  
"So," he says, starting down the corridor, "Quidditch team doing all right?"  
  
You walk by his side and exchange conversation. He mentions his annoyance toward Pansy; you mention training with Snape and Remus; he talks about the abysmal Slytherin Team chances in the next match; you tell him of how Ron and Hermione have become sweet ad nauseam.  
  
Speaking with him feels like scrabbling dangerously on an old wound, not knowing how much is enough to cut it open again.  
  
New beginnings are never easy.  
  
After school the next day, Dumbledore summons you.  
  
"The Death Eaters gather at the MacNair Manor in Surrey on the days of their planned attacks," he tells you, voice hoarse with age and weariness. "The next assault involves the ruin of Muggle London. It is on the eighteenth of January, and on that day, you must be prepared to save mankind."  
  
You search for a trace of humor on his face, but even his eyes are grave.  
  
"The Ministry has agreed to help the Order. You must understand, however, that Voldemort himself will not be the Aurors' or the Order's responsibility, but yours. All our fates rest on you, Harry."  
  
"I understand, sir."  
  
He gives a slight nod. "Be ready. You are dismissed."  
  
January eighteenth is five days away.  
  
You release a swarm of flies and lie motionless on your bed, killing them one by one. You wonder if all you've learned will be enough.  
  
No.  
  
Nothing is ever enough. 

**_Draco._**  
  
Yesterday's talk with Harry was extraordinary.  
  
Extraordinarily wonderful.  
  
Extraordinarily awkward.  
  
And after the long conversation you realized that no one could ever replace him.  
  
You breathe in and out, slouch on the common room couch, stare at the dank ceiling. All is quiet except for the fire crackling and third years whispering in a corner.  
  
Preston hoots in.  
  
As if that is not enough to interrupt your tenuous thread of thought, he drops an envelope on your face.  
  
Sealed with the Malfoy crest. You roll your eyes.  
  
You rip it open and empty the contents onto your palm.  
  
Only a Galleon.  
  
A hook pulls suddenly at your navel. You gasp loudly, the world weaving itself into darkness around you. Eventually, inevitably, to your great annoyance, you land in your father's study.  
  
"I had a feeling you'd be here soon," he greets. "Pray sit down."  
  
You place the Galleon on his desk and sit with a grunt, remembering the last time you saw him. It was months ago, when he admitted what happened with Harry. Truth be told, you never wished to speak with him again. Like so many things in life, it turns out you are to have no choice. You stare at your knees, disgusted with even the blur of his blond hair in the corner of your view. He says no more.  
  
When you finally cannot stand it, you say, angry bile rising in your throat, "Why did you bring me here?"  
  
"I have something to give you."  
  
He mutters a spell to open the desk drawer that he always keeps locked. Then he gently takes something out of it, a dangling sparkling shiny thing he holds with both hands. As you are busy trying to avoid the mere sight of him, you cannot discern exactly what it is. Your heart is in your stomach and fury has pushed your chest to oblivion. Your lungs are so strongly held down with the urge to cry or scream that you cannot breathe.  
  
"Get me back to Hogwarts," you tell him.  
  
"After you take this," he answers dismissively, rising from his chair. He goes over and holds the thing in front of you so that you have to look.  
  
A thin silver chain, and hanging from it, a white gold ring studded with small diamonds.  
  
"What is it." You keep your eyes dead on the softly shining band.  
  
"It was given to me by... a friend. It was long ago. I would like you to have it."  
  
"You expect me to wear that thing?"  
  
"I expect you to keep it."  
  
You swallow slowly, only making your tight throat drier than it is. "It's not another Portkey."  
  
"It's not another Portkey, Draco."  
  
You take it quickly and shove it into your pocket.  
  
"Look at me," he commands.  
  
You obey as slowly as possible. And you are surprised by what you see.  
  
You thought he would appear complacent, a subtle smirk on his lips, a cold twinkling in his eyes. Instead there are small wrinkles on his face you don't remember being there before. His expression is sullen, but no scowl hints his anger or disappointment or cruelty.  
  
For the first time in history, Lucius Malfoy looks regretful.  
  
"Let me go back to school," you say firmly.  
  
"Not until you understand why I had to resort to—and why I was correct in resorting to—the so-called crime you have disrespected me for making."  
  
"Disrespected? Fa—_with all due respect,_ you deserve all the disrespect I have to give. I don't even know why I'm here. Now pardon me, because I am doing my best not to blow up, please return me to Hogwarts and we can live a peaceful existence—oh God—we can live a peaceful existence without having to see or speak with or even think of each other again. You have angered me to the end of my—of my—" You do not know what coherence befell on you, but it dissipates as you knew it would.  
  
"I wish you would at least try to understand—"  
  
"There is nothing to understand!"  
  
"Draco—"  
  
"Harry and I were over two months ago. It will delight you to know that it was your fault. I hope you're happy now."  
  
Lucius's eyes are sharp as daggers.  
  
But you have no doubt you match them edge to edge. 

**_Harry._**  
  
You now have training with Remus every afternoon, because doomsday is nearing and Snape is busy with Order-related things. You go to Remus's office and he opens the door almost immediately, as if he were waiting for you to come. "We're going to practice spells," he greets distractedly, and then motions for you to sit down.  
  
"I thought we were going to practice spells," you say.  
  
"Yes, we are." He raises a quizzical eyebrow.  
  
You chuckle at his absent-mindedness. "We've never practiced spells sitting down before."  
  
"There's always a first time," he retorts, before seeming to realize his mistake. "Oh, I mean, you don't _really_ have to sit down practicing. Really, either position will do, as long as you've got your wand—where's _my_ wand, I wonder? Must have put it here somewhere..." He lifts the books and parchment scattered all over his desk. He pulls out each of his drawers, and in a few seconds the search turns almost frantic.  
  
"Remus? I think it's in your pocket." You point to a piece of shiny wood sticking out from his robes.  
  
"Oh, yes, _that's_ where it is. It was there only a moment ago, how could I have forgotten... Well, where were we? I thought I told you to stand up."  
  
You shake your head in amusement. "Remus, what's wrong?"  
  
He looks at you almost weakly, eyes uncertain, and you have the impression that you're making him feel small. You casually twirl your wand in your fingers, waiting for what he has to say.  
  
He sits behind his desk. He straightens his back. He places his forearms on the armrest. He slouches a bit. He stares at the front cover of his record book like it holds the answers to all the world's questions. He clears his throat.  
  
"Before anything else..." he begins in a lighthearted tone, and you decide that nothing's wrong after all, that he's merely had a draining day. But then he finally meets your eyes, and you know the day is far from over.  
  
"Harry, there's something I haven't told you about your father."

TBC.

If you wish to be informed of Threadbare updates or any new stories through email, owl me (galdeoneatyahoodot com) or join my mailing list (groupsdotyahoodotcomslashgroupslashessenceunderscorehp). I will also be posting updates in my LJ (username: galdeone). Friend me and I'll friend you back. :D To everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I love you guys. XD


	14. History

**Fourteen: History**

**_Draco._**

Lucius remains silent, trying to stare you to death. But you don't flinch under his gaze.

You inhale, and your breath catches in your throat. There is a clenching sensation in your chest: the kind that usually warns you that tears are coming. You concentrate on his robe clasp, trying not to blink. When he speaks, though, you instinctively look up, and in his eyes you see the strange shimmering glaze of reminiscence.

"I only want the best for you, Draco," he says. He directs his eyes to your pocket, where the ring and necklace are, then hastily looks away. The glaze fades.

He places a Galleon on the desk and charms it. He gestures to you, with a slight nod of his head, to touch it. He refuses to say anything more.

You take it with a sigh, and are grateful when you find yourself back at Hogwarts.

**_Harry._**

It feels like a millennium before Remus finally finds his voice. You are quiet and sick of secrets. You always knew you could trust Remus to tell you the truth, but never the whole of it. It must be attached to the core of your identity, somehow: the fate of never knowing all you ought to know.

Remus clears his throat, playing with his fingers.

"James..." He clears his throat again. You wish he would just get on with it.

"James, as you know, was very popular back when we were in school. Many were attracted by his charm. But there were a few who despised him, of course, and no one was as open about her dislike as your mother Lily."

You notice how pale Remus looks, and remember that tomorrow is a full moon; but somehow you guess the moon's not all that is making him look ill.

"James was always in love with her from afar but she never deigned to notice until school was nearly over. As a result, James began... relations... with many students, trying to find someone else he could love who would return his feelings. He had affairs, most of them flings. But there were some which were more serious."

Your heart rate slowly ascends. Your mind points, by instinct, the directions in which Remus's narrative can go; all of them are so vile and undesirable that suddenly you half wish not to hear any more. Remus's eyes concentrate gravely on his own trembling hands and the wood grain of his desk.

"Remus," you start, almost in a plea, in the same moment he says,

"Lucius Malfoy..."

And then he looks at you and you are stung by the regret that you cannot change the past.

Gravid silence, and then you ask, "How long?"

"A year and a half."

You take a deep nervous breath.

"James broke it off when Lily started liking him halfway through seventh year. Lucius, as you can imagine, did not take it lightly. Plotted revenge and whatnot. And he got it, somehow. When he joined You-Know-Who's ranks. And when... well."

But you don't care about Lucius.

"Did he—did my father love him?"

His eyes shift and you know the answer.

"Evidently. At first we thought it was another fling, but soon enough we all thought they'd end up living together. Of course, we also thought James had gotten over Lily." Remus shrugs dismissively.

"So Lucius..."

"Yes. Loved him back."

You stare at him. "Are you trying to tell me that my father was the reason behind what Lucius did twenty years later?"

"It may have been, Harry."

You stand abruptly, knocking your chair back. It falls with a clatter. You make no move to pick it up; your senses are dizzy with disbelief and your head echoes with the reminder that nothing, nothing can be done. Remus's face is more ashen than ever and afraid of what you might be thinking. He alternates looks between your eyes and your collar, your eyes and your shoulders. You end his miserable uncertainty by turning around and walking out the door.

**_Draco._**

The Slytherin common room is too crowded to think in. You slip past your friends to take a walk in the vast halls of Hogwarts, to reflect on how to make things better with Harry, to get your friendship with him to go back to the way it was. For hours you pass through halls without windows and halls with a million sleeping portraits. You go to the Gryffindor portrait, but when the Fat Lady asks for the password you know you are not yet ready to enter. You reach the Owlery and watch the owls hoot and eat and primp their wings, mindless of a world besides their own, at least until they are given their next task.

Sometimes you wish you could be like them: free from worries and missed opportunities, from pain and regret. But then, if you had never known Harry, you would never have felt what it was like to be complete.

You know you want to get back together with him, but not how. All plans of careful planning, however, are unexpectedly called off.

You reach the wide corridor with the stained glass window and see him by the wall across it. His knees are drawn up to his chest as he watches the torchlight make the painting alive. He doesn't notice you step closer. The sighs he heaves here and there tell you there's something on his mind.

You decide to bother him sometime else. But at the same moment he spots you and a smile spreads across his face—too quickly, as if he is relying on automatic response and not the way he feels.

"Draco," he greets. Hearing him speak your name releases a surge of heat in your blood.

"Hello," you say, flopping down on the floor beside him. As you lean your back against the wall, you realize how distant that sounded, and try to fuel a conversation: "How's things?"

"Good, good," he replies dismissively. "And you?"

"I'm quite all right." You examine the stained glass from afar, noting the painted rooms and halls that you haven't been to before. Perhaps one of these days you and Harry could explore them together. From the corner of your eye you can see him turning his head to look at you. You pretend you don't know, and try angling your face to let the dim light play like chiaroscuro on your skin. Maybe he'll find you beautiful again.

"You're beautiful, Draco," he says. "You've always been."

It scares you when you realize he might have actually _learned_ something from Trelawney. And then you smile to yourself thinking that it might have been from all those evenings you and he used to spend together.

"You know, I missed you." You touch his wrist with tentative fingers and then curl your hand around it, absorbing the warmth of his skin. He nods solemnly, studying his shoes.

"I—I missed you too." He edges a bit closer. Only a little bit, but close enough to merit hope that everything will improve and all problems will someday be resolved. You tilt your head and examine him, from the ruffled jet-black of his hair, to the wistful green of his eyes, to the rose of his cheeks, tinted with the orange light. His jumper is a faded gray. His trousers fit him well as so few of his clothes do. His sneakers are scruffy and old. Exactly the Harry you used to know.

But even if you know he's doing well in school and he's eating properly (at least, from what you've seen of him during meals), he appears weary and thin, like he has been thinking too much.

You want to make it better. More than anything.

You reach out your other hand and caress his cheek with the backs of your fingers. He looks at you under half-closed eyelids. You gently cup his jaw with your palm. He leans into your touch, a pout on his lips, as if he yearns for this but wants to avoid the bitterness he feels at the same time. You realize that sometimes there are memories worth remembering, no matter how much they hurt. And sometimes, to find happiness, you must risk your heart, your spirit, your life.

You might end up hurting him, and hurting yourself as well. But there is nothing more than this. And you know Harry feels the same way.

You lean forward and capture his lips in yours.

**_Harry._**

You place your palm flat on his chest and gently push him away. His quick intake of breath is audible; he looks at you, wide-eyed with surprise and disappointment. His lips are parted, at a loss for words.

"I'm sorry," you begin, grappling for an explanation. When you blink, the image of his father and yours burns into the backs of your eyelids. You certainly cannot tell him that his kiss reminded you of the matter you came to this place to think about. The truth is terrible enough as it is; there is no point letting him discover it.

"No," he says, coming to his senses. "It was my fault. I mean, I should have asked..."

"It's all right." You wave a dismissive hand, though your lips are raw with both yearning and revulsion, and your head is spinning with confused memories. Conversations with Remus, pictures of your parents' wedding, Lucius's hands on your flesh... "It's just that... I have things to think about. And I... God, Draco, I can't deal with this. Not yet. Not today."

"I understand," he says, getting to his feet. "I understand completely."

"I would like to talk to you again."

"I'm glad to hear that."

You know that tone. That lighthearted, condescending tone he uses when he's impatient or anxious, as if there are too many other things on his mind for him to continue the conversation. You take a deep breath to apologize again, but something hot carves a path down your cheek. You bring up your fingers and realize that your eyes are wet with tears.

"Harry..."

His eyes are so like his father's.

You sob without knowing why or how, and your weakness fills you with such shame that you bury your face in your arms.

"Please go, Draco. Please."

At first there is stillness. Then a sigh. Then a pair of shuffling feet.

His footsteps echo sadly down the hall.

**_Draco._**

Days before last year's summer began, you had a picnic with him under a tree by the lake. It was far from the castle and no one was there to see; you were free to feed him muffin bits with your fingers and let him lick off the sugar. You sipped Butterbeer from the same bottle, though it wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't, because you snogged him until you both had the same saliva and were giddy with gladness.

"As a matter of interest, do you think we could ever go back to being enemies?" you asked.

He answered, "I don't think I'd want us to. But it would be easy, I think. All I have to do is annoy you."

"Since you can no longer annoy me by existing, it's not going to be as easy as it used to." You smiled at him, and he smiled a sly smile back.

"No, no, it'll be easy. All I have to do is ignore you. You're so hungry for attention that I don't think you'd survive."

You shook your head, murmured "Shut up," and snogged him again.

Of course, you know Harry is not deliberately trying to annoy you. You somewhat wish he were, because then there would be nothing else to it. No tears and confusion. But when he refuses to acknowledge your existence for the next two days, you are worried sick and fearful for what might be happening. You want to do so much for him: solve his problems, throw away his troubles, make his life as enjoyable as it can be. But you don't even know what's wrong, and he doesn't seem to want to tell you.

You take out the present he gave you. The Hungarian Horntail skips about blowing pathetic spires of smoke into the air. Whenever it spreads its wings and attempts to fly, it lands face first on the nightstand surface. It discovers the edge of the table and decides to jump. With barely a second to spare, you manage to catch it before it can destroy itself. Its life seems to be as aimless as yours.

You remember flipping through some of Pansy's magazines during hellish History of Magic periods. They contained articles on every kind of relationship problem remotely possible, a bulk of which dealt with—yes—attention-hungry boyfriends. You wish—and this you think with a laugh—that you had remembered at least a few of the definitions. And you wish there were some charm you could perform on yourself to see if you have real cause for anxiety or are just craving for attention. Harry said he would like to talk to you again, but he has not even owled, not even so much as looked at you in the Great Hall. You are grossly uncertain whether he is waiting for you, or if you should wait for him.

You are nearly miserable with confusion when, on Friday afternoon, in the middle of double Potions, you catch him watching you when he should be chopping his beetroot. He hastily looks away, pretending that he was checking the notes on the chalkboard all the while.

You smile in relief, knowing that it's time.

_TBC._


	15. Deliverance

**Fifteen: Deliverance**

**_Harry._**

In Potions class Draco's expression is tired; his face seems to be weighed down by his troubles; his movements are those of someone who is weary of life. You watch him surreptitiously, regretting that you told him off. Yes, you know full well that you couldn't stand to be with him—or anyone else, for that matter—that night: everything was too much, a maelstrom in your nerves, and you needed time alone to sit down and take it all in. But you could have done it more politely, made it less hurtful. When Draco spots you staring at him you shift your eyes to the blackboard, perhaps because of guilt. After mustering the courage and the effort to be close to you again, you don't think he deserved it, no matter how good your reason was.

Yesterday Remus told you how, for a few months in sixth year, your dad was happy with Lucius and was convinced they could move in together after graduation. They made a good pair, apparently, from Potions to troublemaking. They were so brilliant together that at one point the marauders grew jealous of the secrets James shared with Lucius and, though they would never admit it, the thoughtful gifts Lucius gave James. But their relationship went deeper than secrets and gifts, even if all the Gryffindors and Slytherins tried never to talk or even think about it, at least not in public. Eventually they had nothing to whisper about in dark corners and quiet dorms, because James left Lucius for Lily.

You think it logical to dwell more on the foregone possibility that, had they stayed together, you might never have been born. But you cannot help caring more about your father and his father instead, about how they attracted each other despite differences in attitude and beliefs, like you and Draco; how they crossed house boundaries and rebelled against the norm, like you and Draco; how they may have loved each other from the cores of their beings, like you and Draco.

But they were ruined in the end, as was expected of them from the beginning.

You know there is hope, like a sliver of silver in a cold bedroom, moments before sleep comes. Still, reality is too painful to deny, and in your mind burns the idea that Lucius, in his quest for revenge, has made the past repeat itself.

You grit your teeth, chopping your beetroot more forcefully. Thinking about him gives you the shivers. It's not the good kind, no. Not the kind you associate with Draco. Or used to, at least.

Snape is stalking toward you, so you try to appear busy. He hasn't antagonized you for some time now, but it pays to be careful. Somehow you wish he were his insufferable self instead. You think he's being nice because of the Incident, and you can't bear knowing that he knows.

**_Draco._**

When the bell rings, you poke Harry in the ribs and smirk as he rubs his side. There is a scowl on his face, but when he turns to look at you he replaces it with a smile that tells you things are going well so far.

"Can you meet me by the seventh floor stairway in half an hour?"

He doesn't ask why, even though he looks surprised. Sometimes he just knows when it's better not to question.

He nods once in reply.

You join Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle in going to the Slytherin common room. You can feel his curious gaze on your back.

o-o-o

You greet him with a smile in your eyes and nothing more. _Trust me,_ you try to tell him as you take his hand, pulling him toward your destination.

When you stop, he stares at the pair of doors like it is the mouth leading to the underworld.

You didn't even need to walk past it.

Your voice is hoarse, at first, and as hesitant as he looks: "The Room of Requirement." And then, remembering you should have strength enough for you both, you swallow deeply, clear your throat, and tell him, "This is going to be hard, Harry. I know that. But you're never going to get past it unless you try. And I am going to do all I can to help you."

He continues to stare at the wood of the doors. His lips are parted in disbelief. He seems to have lost all capability of speech.

You turn the knob and slowly, slowly push open the door.

Of course, you have never seen this place before. It's a cross between an old-fashioned Gryffindor bedroom and your father's study. The wallpaper is dark maroon with gold-colored fleurs-de-lis. There is an antique writing desk to one side, and two bookshelves joining in a corner. On the opposite side of the room lies a bed with dark red sheets and a headboard made out of elegantly carved copper. On a closer look, the thin Greek-like posts on each side, which are crawling with vines, are marked with tiny scratches.

_Handcuffs._

Harry swallows audibly. You turn to him and watch as he observes his surroundings. He is silent for a minute, but his chest heaves with panicked breathing. His eyes are wide with the fear of memory.

"Just let the memories come. Don't—don't fight them." You nearly choke on your own words. He looks lost and desperate, and a part of you yearns to take him by the arm and pull him out the door. To stop this torment entirely. But deep down you are certain that any reprieve he gets now will only make the problem worse as time goes by.

His gaze lingers on the bedspread, neatly made and tucked into the corners, the color of lifeless blood. And then he shuts his eyes so tightly that you can almost see the scenes drifting into his head, the emotions filtering into his soul. You slip your thumb under black-rimmed glass, gently trace his left eyelid, and feel the warmth of his tears.

He shies away from your touch. "Why are we here?" He speaks as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He does, in a way.

You pull up two ornately upholstered chairs and sit down. You can clearly see how trapped he feels. You ignore the guilt that surfaces inside you and tell him, "We're here to talk about it."

"Draco, please—"

"Harry, please. I only—oh, this sounds so trite, but I only want the best for you. Out of all the people..." You stop short, because you were about to say that out of all the people in the world, you are one of few that he can trust the most; but you recall that the very man who caused this grief was your father, and yet you could do nothing to stop him.

So, instead, you say, "You can tell me anything. You know that."

With obvious reluctance, he sits opposite you. He nods slowly, distractedly, as if his mind is on autopilot and he can no longer think for himself. "I'm sorry for not telling—"

"No, forget it, Harry. Forget about everything except this room and what happened here. And tell me everything."

"You know, you sound awfully like a psychiatrist."

You blink.

"What's a psychiatrist?"

"Oh, nothing," he replies, a hint of a smile on his face. You are relieved if only because the mood is getting lighter, even though it was at your expense.

"Right, Harry. Why don't we start with the moment you realized you were running out of parchment?"

He looks slightly amused, as if he thinks you're joking, but when he sees your serious expression he ducks his head and sigh. A very long minute passes before he starts to speak, but almost at the same time you ask him if it would be better if you asked questions instead.

"I suppose." His murmur is low and shy enough to make your conscience protest again, but seeing as you are quite skilled in not listening to said conscience, you muster the nerve to continue.

"What happened after you went to the seventh floor stockroom? It's in the wing opposite from here, right?"

"Yes. I went to the stockroom but it was locked."

"So you decided to come here?"

"Yes. I didn't feel like looking for Filch, who seems to think he owns all the sodding supplies in there. So, since I had enough time before the game, I thought it'd be good to get parchment from here instead, seeing as I needed it and all."

"You saw my father on the way?"

"He was just walking out the door..."

"So he had been in this room prior to you coming?"

"Yes."

"Was he expecting you, do you think?"

"No. He looked surprised. But then..."

"But then what?"

"But then he instantly looked delighted. Likely because I had come to him and his plans became twice as easy."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"I... yes. He said—something like—that he had been waiting for me."

"And then?"

He shrugs.

He is inspecting his lap. His fringe falls over his eyes so you can only see his nose and mouth. His lips droop down like a wilted flower; the shadows play on his jaw, and oddly, it reminds you of loneliness.

You wait for a while before speaking again. You go through it with him, posing questions until he tells you the entire story in murmurs and nods and grumbles. You don't stop even when he turns away, his lips frozen in a bitter grimace, tears welling in his eyes. You don't stop when he tells you to "please, Draco, please, I don't want to talk about—" then buries his head in his hands, the anger falling in drops through his fingers. You don't stop when he says, "And then he did it," all too ready to move on to the next part, no; you ask him what your father did, even if it sickens you and rips him apart; you don't stop until he tells you that "he fucked me and it wasn't sex, it was murder, he stabbed me dry and tore me in two," and even you cannot breathe.

When he finishes, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks sticky with tears, you slide your fingers under his chin so he can look at you. He is ashamed and tries to avert his eyes, but you gaze steadily into them and he finds he has no choice but to stare back. Never taking your eyes off him, you fish something out of your pocket. He takes the opportunity to look at your hands and see what it is.

You pull the ancient dagger out of its leather sheath. Its hilt is silver with an intricately carved design in black, encrusted with pale sapphires. The Malfoy crest stares blankly from its base. The blade glints in the dim light. For the quickest moment his eyes start, frightened. But you catch his gaze and he seems to realize he trusts you.

"I inherited this when I was born. Never had the chance to use it, though. Harry, this will sound stupid and perhaps a bit mad, but..." You hand the weapon to him, and though the blade is facing you, his hands shake with uncertainty as he takes it.

You gesture toward the bed. "Destroy it."

At first he looks confused. Then, as he recognizes what you expect him to do, he stands, firming his jaw.

The dagger, though small, is sharp as death. He kneels on the edge of the bed and rips the blankets and the sheets and stabs the mattress as if it is your father. He slashes the pillows so forcefully that the feathers rush up and float back down. He wrenches the curtains off their hinges and tears them with his bare hands. Even from a distance you can see his furious tears tumbling from his eyes onto the damage he has done.

When there is none of the bed left to be destroyed, he walks swiftly away from it. Four steps later he turns back. He whips out his wand, murmuring _"Incendio."_ He grips the dagger as he would salvation. You step beside him and watch as the fire consumes the shining green of his eyes.

**_Harry._**

He is doing all he can. You know that.

And somehow, you think he is beginning to succeed.

After Lucius raped you, you thought you would never again be filled with the kind of palpable joy that you felt when you found out you were a wizard, and when you flew for the first time, and when you saw your parents in the Mirror of Erised. Those memories were but remnants of a lost world, like one before a dementor's kiss—except it was not a dementor, it was Lucius Malfoy, and you cannot decide if that's better or worse.

But when you spoke about It in detail for the first time—with Lucius's son, no less—you released a slew of bitterness and anger along with the story, and you discovered that redemption was possible, after all. Then, when you destroyed that cursed bed, the fire burned like hope, illuminating the future.

Before today you thought it would hurt you to remember anything, anything at all; and in the Room of Requirement you were convinced that Draco didn't know what he was doing, that he was only wishing in vain to make it all better. But he took the risk, and so did you. And it does feel better.

You lie in bed, twirling your wand, staring out Neville's window. Everyone's downstairs at dinner; you are too full with relief to join them. There is so much thinking that needs to be done, so much to make up for all those times you tried to forget when you should have overcome. You think of Draco, mostly, but also of his father and of Remus and of Sirius and of Ron and of Hermione and, when a fly comes along and you kill it by instinct, of Voldemort.

When all this is over, when the school year ends and there are no Dark Lords to be dealt with, maybe you and Draco could go on a permanent vacation. You could live together, just him and you. Keep chasing the dream that never came true.

**_Draco._**

Having skipped dinner, you watch the fire, lying once again on the common room sofa. Blaise, who is on a no-dinner diet, scrutinizes you. You pretend not to notice him, knowing he is bound to speak soon anyway.

"What's wrong?" he asks. You almost smile to yourself.

"Pansy's rubbing off on you, I see."

"I was only asking." Blaise frowns, rubbing his skinny stomach.

"Hungry?"

He hastily stops, and then crosses his arms. "No, not at all."

"Right."

"Why'd you skip dinner, anyway? And where were you after Potions?"

"Walking around. And I'm not hungry. Besides, I've gained three ounces." You smile brightly at him, and he huffs because three ounces is nothing compared with his half stone since the start of Christmas—even if he doesn't look like it at all. He says no more. After a few minutes of silence, he tells you that he's going to take a walk to work off his fats. "Good for you," you tell him, half laughing. He goes out the door with a scowl.

Half an hour later, when the Slytherins start coming back from the Great Hall, you stand and go out as well. You walk until you reach the entrance hall, where you feel a bit lost at the very center, wondering what you came here for. You are only sure that you wanted to avoid the hubbub down in the dungeons.

You take a long look at the stairs leading up. But when you take the first step you realize it's too soon. Harry needs time.

So you summon your broom and head to the Quidditch pitch instead, flying under the moonlight with the cold wind in your hair.

_TBC._


	16. Forward

**Sixteen: Forward**

**_Harry._**

The next day at breakfast Ron and Hermione are tickling each other under the table whilst harmlessly munching on forkfuls of egg so that, in their temporarily daft perception, no one will notice. While waiting for them to swallow, you look over Hermione's shoulder at the Slytherin table, where Draco suddenly ducks his head. You grin at him until he looks up again, slightly pale with embarrassment. Both of you nod to acknowledge each other.

You turn back to Ron and Hermione, who are still apparently having much fun below the table. You clear your throat, but they don't seem to notice. You take a sip of coffee before saying, "I have to tell you something."

Ron stops mid-chew, mid-tickle. Hermione raises an eyebrow. Their smiles are frozen on their faces, curious and almost guilty. You throw your head toward the doors to the entrance hall. You stand, leaving a third of your meal uneaten. They don't look much like they want to finish theirs either, because they follow you without a last glance. You take them through the corridors to a dimly lit alcove. They shift their feet in the pause between arriving and listening to you speak, as if they know what's about to come.

"You two seem happier than usual today, and I hate to pick a bad time, but I have to tell you this because I've been hiding it for so long and soon it might be too late. I was raped."

Then you shrug. "I'm all right about it now, though. I just thought you two might like to know."

"When—" "Who—"

But their voices catch in disbelief. Your conscience berates you, if only a little, for telling them just now.

But you could never tell them then; you could never expect them to accept it when you yourself could not.

"October. Lucius Malfoy."

Even you are surprised by how easily the words come, sliding out of your mouth like a 'Good morning' or horrible food. What's stranger is that they fail to even sting like they used to, as if you have forgotten the pain, or have perhaps become desensitized to it.

Hermione looks like she's about to cry, her eyes directed at one point in space as if trying to remember the date. Seconds later she blinks in recognizance, than looks down at her hands, then looks up at you and asks if it was on that day you missed Draco's Quidditch match, that day you were looking for parchment.

"Yes, it was that day. I'm amazed you remember."

Hermione shares a look with Ron, whose face is pink with anger or shock or both. She tells you, "Oh, we... we knew there was something wrong, but then we thought it was just you and Draco having a fight or _something_... Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!" The tears slide down her cheeks then. Ron wraps an arm around her waist and squeezes, but the gesture only makes her cry harder.

Ron says, "It was my fault. I didn't know... I assumed you were watching the game from the other side of the pitch, and I... I told Hermione that—"

You shake your head to interrupt him, not wanting them to blame themselves for a mistake neither of them made. It was Lucius's doing, and his alone. No one else is responsible. Not even yourself.

You swallow deeply at the realization. _It wasn't your fault._

"Don't cry, Hermione. You guys had nothing to do with it."

The look on her face almost reminds you of Mrs. Weasley back in the summer before fifth year, when the boggart turned into her dead sons. Hermione appears helpless, and you find yourself unable to do anything about it. You turn to Ron. He is watching you intently, as if searching your features. There is a glint of suspicion and anger in his eyes.

"Draco had nothing to do with it either," you tell him. Sometimes it's hard to accept that they still dislike each other after all this time, even if there hasn't been direct antagonism. Despite your continual assurances, Ron still has distrust left for him, too deeply rooted to disappear.

Ron surveys your expression and knows you're telling the truth. He gives a slight nod. Hermione buries her face in his shoulder.

"Lucius will get what's coming to him. Don't worry, I'm going to make sure of it tomorrow."

Hermione raises her head.

"What d'you mean, mate?" Ron asks.

You tell them everything about the mission. Afterward you feel oddly relieved, as if a great burden has lifted from your chest—despite their horrified, terrified gawps. You exchange looks back and forth with both of them, until finally Hermione decides to speak:

"Harry, you _can't_ go. It's too dangerous!"

"I'll have to go sometime, Hermione. I don't think it's something we can discuss." Her face falls. "I promise to treat you two to all the sweets you want when I get back."

Ron shakes his head with a small smile, subconsciously caressing Hermione's hair.

And then—perhaps because they understand how pain is painful to recall—or perhaps because they know that anxieties beget only anxieties—no one speaks any more.

Knowing that they're beside you is enough.

**_Draco._**

"Where are we going, again?" he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets as the breeze hits you both when you go out the castle's main door. You gesture toward the lakeside and walk, wicker basket swinging in your hand. He follows quietly, taking in the surroundings. It looks like spring has come early this year: the last of winter has melted, and flowers and grass have begun to bloom here and there. You head toward the old beech tree, scantily clad with leaves, touched by the dim fingers of sunlight. You take out your checkered blanket and spread it over the earth.

"We're having a picnic?" he says incredulously.

You try to appear affronted. "Do you have a problem with it?"

"No, no, it's just... uncharacteristic of you, that's all. I mean, we had one last year, but that was my idea."

"Rest assured I subjected the house-elves to long and painful torture to get all these." You lay out the food one by one.

"You forgot one plate. And one set of utensils." He smiles triumphantly, the smile that used to make you feel like punching him in the face. Now it merely looks adorable, but of course you're never going to tell him that.

"We're sharing a plate, you idiot."

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn't seem to have a problem with it. He flops down, grabbing the basket from you and continuing to take the contents out. He seems like a child, so different from how you saw him only yesterday. You know that there is no way for so much to change overnight. But you also know that things can get better.

You and he eat in silence for a while, occasionally feeding each other like sentimental newlyweds; but no one is around to see, anyway, and even you can afford to let your guard down. Sometimes romance is more important than reputation, though you're never going to tell him that either.

After finishing the Yorkshire pudding he smiles in satisfaction and lies on his back, watching the clouds. You check to see if anyone's lurking around (it's a habit, really) before following his example. Fleetingly you think about bringing up what happened yesterday, asking him how it made him feel and if he's doing all right. But Harry sighs again beside you—a joyful sigh—and you don't want to ruin the moment. So you stay quiet.

And then he turns on his side, facing you, and tells you about the mission.

:o:

There is no initial quiet shock, because once you hear everything fear immediately rushes to your mind, so strong that you can feel the tingle in your spine, and you only have to part your lips to say, "And what if you get hurt? If you die?" You shudder at the idea, but Harry just smiles wistfully.

"Dumbledore doesn't have the right—_no one_ has the right to tell you to risk your life, even if it's for a cause. Why did you say yes?"

"I've told you about the prophecy. I'm the only one who can defeat him. I'm doing it willingly, and I have to see it through."

"Harry, please—" and a lump is lodged in your throat, perhaps because you never say please, and perhaps because he is only sad instead of angry.

Resignation is not surrender, but the fulfillment of one's responsibilities. Harry seems to think so. But you find it hard to understand.

"I don't want to lose you," you tell him.

He rolls on his back again and stares at the sky. You take a long look at him before doing the same. A moment later his hand finds yours, and its warmth seems to tell you, _Me neither._

And the wind seems to whisper the same.

:o:

You take him to the seventh floor.

He squeezes your wrist as he steps closer to the Room of Requirement doors. Yesterday they were wood-colored with antique copper handles for knobs. Now they are painted white with golden vine-like designs, finished with elegant brass handles.

"Why are we..." he starts, a smile dancing on his lips.

"Let's go in," you say, stepping forward and opening the doors. You make a sweeping gesture with your arm, and he chuckles. He walks in, and then promptly inhales, his eyes wide with amazement.

"Its... really brighter in here than I remember..."

Daylight is spilling through the thin silk curtains that somehow remind you of waterfalls. The bed is large, with a cream-colored spread and a headboard of brass curves and curlicues. The chairs and desk are made of white wood and golden upholstery. At the far side of the room, a fire burns warmly in the hearth.

You spot a tray of chocolate and champagne on the nightstand. Just what you needed.

Harry's eyes, if possible, light up brighter at the sight of them. He reaches for a truffle, but you place a hand on his wrist to stop him. He frowns slightly, and you grin. "Patience is a virtue. Sit down. And take off your filthy shoes. Socks too."

Later the two of you are cross-legged on the bed, feasting on the chocolate and wine. At one point you pick up half a truffle between your thumb and forefinger, and bring it to his mouth. He takes an experimental lick before wrapping his lips around it, taking your fingers along. He lets the chocolate melt in his tongue; it doesn't take long before he holds your hand and slowly sucks the sweet residue off the digits. The gesture is surprisingly erotic, and seems to spark a fierce flame inside you. Harry hasn't done anything like this in a long time.

When he's finished he looks meaningfully up at you, still holding your hand, his lips a wet crimson. You lean slightly forward, as unsure of your actions as a third year Hufflepuff; you watch his reaction, if any, before proceeding to lean further forward. His face is expressionless, and you start to think this might not be the right thing to do. So you stop midway toward him, embarrassed by your own presumptions. But he slides a thumb across your lower lip, tenderly like a breeze; he takes off his glasses and places them on the nightstand; and his eyes are dark with longing as he closes the space between you.

His kiss feels like redemption, like a goblet of pumpkin juice would feel after a journey in the desert, or like freedom after twenty years in Azkaban. You and Harry have lost so much, and there is no way to recover it—but when Harry presses his lips to yours it feels like moving on.

You return the kiss with equal ardor, pushing him gently so his back rests on the pillows. You close your eyes and savor the slightest hint of chocolate on his lips and tongue. He brings his right hand up to your nape and pulls you to him, deepening the kiss. You trace your left palm from his hip to his stomach, pushing up the hem of his shirt. He arches toward your touch, his other hand working on the zipper of your trousers. He lets go for a moment, raising his arms so you can slip his shirt over his head. You pause to admire his well-toned torso and muscled arms, although they are paler than you remember.

He pulls you back to him and kisses you again, with a wildness you didn't think he would be capable of after everything. And then he looks intently at you and nods. You unbutton your shirt slowly. When the last button is freed from its hole he yanks the fabric with both hands off your arms and throws it onto the floor. "I missed this," he whispers, and finally unfastens your trousers—but not before fumbling quite purposely against your budding erection.

When you realize the extent of your arousal, you hesitate again for a brief moment, appraising his expression. There is no trace of reluctance in his eyes. He pulls your hand toward his groin, where he is quite evidently turned on as well. You pop open the buttons and pull down his Muggle jeans, along with his underwear. After the sudden absence of contact he thrusts his hips forward, pressing against your thigh.

The friction is too much and you take off your trousers and underwear as well, slipping a hand underneath him as you capture his lips once more. You caress his arse; he curves his spine to push harder towards you. Voraciously you trail a series of kisses from his neck to his chest, stopping to suck on the hollow of a clavicle, whereupon he gasps and bites his lower lip. He hisses when you cup his groin; and when you begin stroking him, he whispers "Ah—ah..." and cannot continue.

And you think, _We're moving on._

:o:

Later, much later, when you are poised at his entrance and aching to enter, and he is shallowly breathing, urging for release, you ask him if he's all right.

By instinct he says "Yes," but he squirms where you are pressing against him, almost inside him—and he swallows, and he takes a deep breath, and he gazes at you, wide-eyed with apprehension.

"Draco, I—" he begins, voice fraught with something you can't identify, but something that makes you cry inside.

"Shh." You press your forefinger to his lips. "It's okay, Harry."

"But I—"

You kiss him. You slide down your fingers and coax his climax out of him, so he, at least, can let go.

When he moves to return the favor, you press your lips to his brow and hold him tightly, saying, "No, I'm great," because his fear stabs at you from within and you can't bear it. You can't even begin to try.

"Next time, I promise," he says. "I'll get used to it. You're not him. You'll never be. Next time—"

"Shh..."

All is quiet for moments after that.

Then he murmurs, "Thank you."

He buries his head in your chest. Soon enough he falls asleep.

As you stroke his hair your eyes sting with hope and remorse and something resembling love.

Yes. Always love.

_TBC._


	17. Execution

**Seventeen: Execution**

**_Harry._**

You awaken.

Sunlight filters through the diaphanous curtains, bathing Draco in a cream-colored glow. His breathing is deep and peaceful as he rolls to his side and buries his cheek in his pillow, clutching it as though it were you.

You sit up and stretch your arms, still watching him, and thinking that when the war is finished you wouldn't mind waking up like this every day for the rest of your life. You rub your eyes, a bad habit, but you had a good sleep and they don't hurt when you pull your fingers away. You run your hand through your hair: that hasn't changed; it's still messy as ever and standing on end. For a few minutes you are content to sit there staring at Draco. You cannot be sure, but you imagine he smiles slightly in his slumber.

Soon enough you pick up your glasses and swing your legs to the floor, whereupon you feel something sticky on your navel.

You slip your hand down under the covers, wondering how the chocolate could possibly have—

"Oh," you murmur, and wipe your hand on the sheets, only pausing afterward when you realize you might have used the tissue that has miraculously appeared on the bedside table. You frown with embarrassment when you remember how you somewhat rejected him last night, but you smile to yourself when you remember how he was completely all right with it.

The clock says half past six, and you have just enough time to get ready for the seven-o'-clock meeting with Dumbledore. You get up and start to dress, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to rouse Draco. When you finish, you look around the room as if to search for something—but you discover that you are only absorbing the surroundings, storing the environment of a memory that you will allow no one to take away.

You turn to Draco and sit down by his side. You take a quill and ink and a square of parchment from the nightstand drawer; you write him a message and hope that it won't be the last. Perhaps the mission is not yet engraved within you; perhaps part of you still denies that later you might perish. But the possibility of losing Draco stands out in your consciousness, strong and painful.

You leave the note on the table where he will find it. You lean forward, but you couldn't bear to kiss him; so instead you run your fingers through his hair, and slide them, featherlike, down his jaw line.

Silently, you creep out the door, his breathing like music in your ears.

**_Draco._**

The room is cold when you rise, drained of Harry's presence. The sun glares in your eyes; you roll to your other side. You wait for a few moments, and later you sit up, determined to catch Harry at breakfast. You turn to the clock on the nightstand and spot a folded piece of parchment waiting for you.

You grab it so quickly that it nearly gets crumpled. With fumbling fingers, you open it.

_I'll meet you in the Astronomy Tower later.  
No matter how late I come back.  
—Harry._

You creep to his pillow and wrap your arms around it, inhaling his scent, perhaps vanilla and a bit of cinnamon, but mostly something you cannot identify as anything other than Harry. Most people smell like their dorm rooms or their houses, but from the beginning Harry has been redolent of mirth and redemption. He smells as if no tragedy has assailed him, as if he has mastered how to keep himself, and keep himself alive.

:o:

Harry isn't in the Great Hall at breakfast. Nor are Lupin and Snape and Dumbledore. You frown more deeply as you look to their places, one by one, and see only absence. Weasley and Granger eat slowly, silent in the midst of noisy conversation. You think it a shame to be like them, reduced to worrying and nothing more, but you place your elbow on the table and hold your chin up with your fist as you eat, completely eschewing Malfoy manners, unable to think of anything but Harry's survival.

**_Harry._**

Dumbledore gives you, Remus, and Snape a briefing. It is detailed and dizzying, and although he speaks calmly, there is a trace of urgency in his voice. His eyes are grave, and they pierce into yours, saying, _If you fail, the world must face the consequences._ He tells you what he has told you many times before: the Death Eaters will be meeting in the MacNair Manor at seven in the evening. You will be accompanied by Remus, Snape, five members of the Order, and eight Aurors—all of whom will be enough to distract the Death Eaters and leave Voldemort to you. You will have to practice extreme caution, because you can't use objects like Invisibility Cloaks and Polyjuice Potions, which will prove useless against Voldemort's powers. By the time Dumbledore talks about transportation, you are too busy trying to accept your duties to catch up with what he's saying.

Afterward you and Remus and Snape go to the lawn for a final practice session. Snape leans against a tree, arms crossed, planning only to watch. You and Remus fall into dueling stance. When Remus throws the first hex without warning, you shield it by quick instinct, and send a hex of your own.

"Everything's in place," Remus says, jumping to the side to avoid the hit. "You only have to worry about—_Petrificus Totalus._"

A quick reflection curse does the trick. You nod, wand still at the ready. "Voldemort, I know. And you only have to worry about the Death Eaters, so don't think about me. _Stupefy._" The sun is in his hair as he leaps out of the way, hurling a fast _Impedimenta_ at you. You easily dodge the curse and look at the shape of his robes, the circles under his eyes, his tired smile as he commends your agility. Nonetheless he is beautiful, if only for his strength. You remember Sirius and how Remus never had the chance to say goodbye, both before Azkaban and before death. Remus has borne it all, loneliness and betrayal and loss. Some students laugh at him for having strands of gray hair at so (relatively) young an age, but you can't help thinking of how it only shows how much he has carried.

You wonder if you'll have a head tinted gray at his age.

You wonder if you'll live to be his age.

"Harry?" he steps nearer, confused by the lapse in hexing. He was expecting you to go next.

"I just—" You look around, at the trees and the lake and the far-off pitch and the castle, and they meld and twist in your eyes and it feels like spinning, so quickly that you flop down on the grass with a lost look toward the horizon, where the Giant Squid is taking a few moments to bask in the sun.

"It's a beautiful day," you say out loud, not to anyone in particular.

"Are you going mad, Potter?" Snape says, uncrossing his arms and immediately walking toward you, eyes drawn to the Squid as well. Remus's hands are in pockets—he does that when he's nervous outdoors. He parts his lips, about to express his concern, but you shush him with, "Let's sit down for a while. Take it in and keep it, just in case."

Somewhere behind you Snape snorts, but is unable to come up with a sarcastic comment. When Remus sits beside you, so close that you can smell the soap he used this morning, you hear a soft rustle in the grass behind and you know that Snape has sat down too. Although you can imagine the scowl on his face, you wonder why he jumped in the bandwagon. He has no empathy, after all, and you don't think he's going to die. Perhaps he only wants to take this chance, to use you as an excuse to sit on the ground he has long waited to sit on, to admire the sunlight glistening on the water, the splashes the Squid is happily making. Perhaps he has waited for this simplicity and has never had the opportunity to try it.

Remus traces his palm up the nape of your neck, offering what comfort he can. You think about Draco.

You think, _I don't want to die._

**_Draco._**

When you reach the Gryffindor portrait after a long run, you sigh with relief at seeing a third or fourth year girl just about to enter. You send her a charming smile, but how it works in your disheveled state is besides you. She steps back and lets you enter first. You nod courteously at her (Harry's politeness has rubbed off on you) and stroll in, hoping he's there.

He is. He's at a table by the window, speaking in hushed tones with Weasley and Granger, whose faces are downcast with resignation. When Hermione murmurs something, a bit of worry lurking in her expression, Harry squeezes her hand. You feel a bit of jealousy tug at your insides—only a bit, and then you remember why you're there.

Harry, who was facing a completely different direction, seems to sense you coming and turns to you. In the moment your eyes connect you almost offer to come with him, to help him kill Voldemort. But he would never allow you to risk your life, or to force yourself into the same responsibilities he has. So you tell him you want to talk. A few seconds later you realize you've failed to say it aloud; but he stands slowly, not taking his gaze off you, and nods toward the stairs to the boys' dormitory.

"What do they think about the mission?" you ask once you're alone in his dorm room.

He knows you're talking about Weasley and Granger. "They're worried, to say the least."

Silence, and then, "Harry, are you sure you want to do it?"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to, but I have to. We've gone through this. You know what I mean. Let's talk about something else."

"Like how I am completely going to seduce you later?" You wiggle your eyebrows, and his face breaks into a smile. Even as you make the joke your heart quivers. You wonder how he can be so nonchalant about the task in his hands, as if it's just another item on his to-do list. He's excellent at hiding what fear he has. Sometimes that scares you.

"Why later, when you can do it now?" He leans in to kiss you, sliding a hand up to your hair, when a brisk knocking comes on the door and someone enters.

Harry pulls away, and you both look expectantly at Lupin.

"Harry, I think we have to go..." He looks from you to Harry, unsure of whether he should say any more.

"He knows," Harry says.

Lupin nods. "Right. As the Headmaster mentioned, we have two trains to take. We can't use magic or the Floo in case we're being watched. Which I hope we aren't. Well, are you ready?"

"I'm ready." He stands.

"I'll meet you outside the portrait." Lupin sends you another glance, but it's neither suspicious nor doubtful. It's sympathetic. And for once you don't feel inferior being sympathized with. When Lupin leaves, shutting the door behind him, Harry turns to you immediately.

You stand. "I don't know what—Mmph—"

You surrender to his desperate lips. You close your eyes, breathe through your nose, concentrate only on his mouth and his scent and the small noises he makes, trying to absorb the way he slides his fingers through your hair and pulls you so close you feel molded into him. When Harry lets go he leaves you wanting more.

"I'll be back. Later. Don't forget."

"Yes, I—"

"Let's go downstairs. I'll be back right away, anyway."

"Of course you will."

Sometimes, giving yourself too much hope is the only way to get by.

When you step out of the portrait hole Lupin raises his eyebrows in a question. Harry nods quickly, and takes your hand, and shares his warmth because you have none to give. Before you know it he and Lupin are walking slowly away.

"Harry—wait—"

And you pull him to you and kiss him and kiss him until both your lips are swollen and all you can think is _I can't let him do this alone, I can't,_ when all the while you know you have no choice and neither does he.

Harry whispers something and his throat catches and you don't hear the whole of it. But you suspect it has something to do with you and love.

When he walks away again you watch his steps and memorize the way they sound. You imagine you will remember this moment for the rest of your life.

**_Harry._**

Remus and Snape take you down to Hogsmeade, where you meet three more members of the Order. There is Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mr. Weasley and someone you haven't seen before. All three have bags under their eyes, and when they spot you they smile languid winces. They continue to wait for the train with hands in their pockets, eyes roving as if in search of doom or redemption. Even Lupin plays with his fingers and runs them through his hair until it becomes almost as disheveled as yours. Only Snape remains calm, but he stands so rigidly that you suspect he is on the constant lookout for suspicious activity.

_It will be over soon,_ you try to tell yourself.

When the train rolls in you are startled out of your anxious reverie, noticing for the first time that Remus has been rubbing circles on your shoulder. He tells you, when everyone is too busy boarding the train to be within earshot, "Be very careful, Harry. We're depending on you."

Despair burns in his eyes. He looks at you like you're going to die.

For a second you wonder if he still loves you that way—if he wishes that someday...

You almost laugh at yourself when he says, "Draco will be waiting," because Remus will not be selfish even when the world ends.

Draco will be waiting. You think about this as you walk through the train doors.

:o:

The MacNair Manor is dark and foreboding—as expected. The sun is nearing the horizon by the time you and the entire task force reach the foot of the hill that the mansion stands on. The Aurors suspend the security spells, and afterward you follow them through a window in the front of the house. They stare at you before crossing the foyer. Perhaps they doubt that you can do it on your own.

Remus and Mr. Weasley and the rest of the Order nod at you before they leave. Soon enough you're in an empty foyer with only Snape, and it's so quiet that you can hear your own breathing echo on the walls.

"This way," he mutters, striding with a swish of his cloak. You follow him as quietly as possible. With each empty corridor you pass, you grow more afraid of Death Eaters finding you. You end up tiptoeing so as not to make noise, and when Snape turns around to see you mid-balance, he sends you a grimace of a smile.

He opens a small door. "This room has a door to another room, which has two doors. Go through the door on the left, and then pass through the tunnel to reach the Dark Lord's lair. The official meeting hasn't started; he'll be alone. Use this to open the locks. It's the Headmaster's; treat it with utmost care." He hands you a penknife similar to the one Sirius gave you years ago, except it's made entirely of gold. "The Dark Lord can sense his Mark more strongly than he can ever sense you, so I cannot enter. Remember: minimal movement. I'll be waiting for you here."

"Okay."

"Send a spark if you're in trouble. You do know the spell—"

"Yes, I do."

"Good. Go, then."

Now even Snape looks like he's relying on you to save the world.

You go through the door.

**_Draco._**

The MacNair Manor is dark and foreboding—as expected. You find the security spells turned off, and a window unlocked in the main wing.

You climb in, hoping there is something you can do.

**_Harry._**

Later, when you noiselessly open the door and see Voldemort's back outlined against a crackling fire, your chest pounds at the realization that it's too easy.

Voldemort is watching the flames in the hearth, oblivious of your presence. Too easy, and a part of you stings with guilt for not giving him the chance to fight. But this is life and death, and what is required of you.

You raise your wand.

"_Avada—_"

"I was expecting you," Voldemort says.

Your breath catches in your lungs. You try again:

"_Avada—_"

He vanishes before your eyes and immediately appears behind you. You turn around as he shouts, "_Crucio!_"—

But his voice cracks. The pain doesn't come. Only silence.

He is frozen in place.

"_Avada Kedavra,_" you murmur finally.

He falls, and for a moment you imagine Draco is behind him, staring at you with wide gray eyes.

You plunge into darkness.

_TBC._


	18. Finally

**Eighteen: Finally**

**_Draco._**

Voldemort is dead. 

He was a wrinkled corpse when the newly dispatched Aurors pulled back his hood. They brought him to the Azkaban morgue to ascertain his body was dead; they conducted tests on him to ascertain his ghost wouldn't bring him back. They gave him an unembellished wooden box for a casket, and he was buried beside his father's grave. The Minister of Magic oversaw his funeral with restrained happiness. No one was there to mourn his loss. 

Harry is in a coma. So are Lupin, Snape, Lucius, and everyone else who was in the MacNair Manor two days ago. No one is sure why they dropped unconscious the moment Voldemort was murdered. They haven't roused, and the story hasn't been told. Dumbledore refuses to comment on the matter. There have been speculations, most of them bizarre, but you are convinced there is a simple explanation. 

The stranger question is why you are awake. 

When Harry fell to the ground along with Voldemort you didn't think you would live—not because of magical reactions, but because Harry, as you thought, was gone. You expected your breath would stop and your lungs would turn into dust; you expected to collapse and die like them both. But you did not: you stood and stared, and then fear rushed down your spine and you ran to Harry, and when you held him he was warm. You took his pulse; it was soft and slow: he was alive. Ironically enough, that was when your tears dropped onto his cheeks. 

It might have been hours later when a few Aurors arrived to capture Voldemort and take you and Harry to St. Mungo's. Harry is still here, in the same bed, in the same position. The healers magic energy potions into his nose every five hours, even when for all the others they do it every six. Two days and nobody has stirred. It's becoming ridiculous. The wizarding world is itching to celebrate and they yet have no reason to, so instead they talk about how you could have possibly survived and what you had to do with You-Know-Who's death and/or Harry's tragic coma. You're either a hero or a villain. You've realized you are both: a hero for helping Harry and a villain for remaining conscious afterward. You're so tired of being either that you've stopped listening to anything but Harry's breathing. 

The healers have told everyone that Harry—and the other wizards involved—will wake up. They just don't know when. And you don't know whether to believe them. 

The last two days have been a waking dream of boring classes, cloying meals, and tossing nights, with lapses in between where you would suddenly remember that Harry's not in the Gryffindor Tower playing chess with Weasley or training in Lupin's office or having a nice talk with you in the Astronomy Tower like he promised. You remember that he's in the hospital and no one has been able to do anything to bring him back to consciousness. Every time you think about it another tremor pangs through you, more of worry than hurt, more of guilt than sadness. When Harry told you about the prophecy, you didn't want it to come true, so you blinded yourself to the possibility that it could. Now Harry has finally faced Voldemort. Now Voldemort is dead, but Harry is on the precipice bordering death and survival. Now you realize how easy it can be to lose someone. It's a shame you've realized too late. 

You are in St. Mungo's mission casualty room number one, waiting for Harry to wake up, when Dumbledore Apparates. 

"Shhhh," a healer on duty hisses. Upon realizing who it is, she casts her eyes down and quickly steps out of the room. 

"You're still here, Draco? I do hope you remember our agreement." 

You're only allowed to visit Harry because you've promised to be back at school promptly at eight every night. It's three minutes after. 

"Sorry, I guess I lost track of time. But there's something I've wanted to ask you, Professor." 

"If you would like to visit your father..." 

"No, that's not it." Lucius is in the hospital ward in Azkaban along with the other Death Eaters. He's still unconscious, anyway, and you can find no good reason to visit him. 

"I understand. Something else, then. Lemon drop?" 

"No, thank you. I just wanted to know why—how—I didn't fall into a coma." 

Dumbledore, whose beard is whiter than snow and whose eyes are surrounded by deep lines, seems to turn thirty years younger when he smiles at you and says, "I was wondering the same thing." His eyes twinkle, and you realize that you haven't seen them twinkle in months. He pulls up a chair, sits down before you, and leans back, waiting for your answer. 

"I... I really don't know..." 

"Did you take any potion for security's sake before you Floo'd from Hogsmeade to your home to the MacNair Manor?" The amused accusatory way he says it pricks your conscience the tiniest bit. "Did you cast any spells on yourself to ensure that you would stay in one piece, at least, in the mission you took upon yourself without the approval of authority?" 

"Sir, I'm sorry I—" 

"Of course you aren't. If you hadn't petrified Voldemort, Harry would not have succeeded; indeed, he wouldn't even be on a bed beside you at this moment." He twinkles. "I was only prompting you to tell the truth." 

"Oh. Well, I didn't take a potion. And I certainly didn't cast spells on myself—not that I knew any. You could say I wasn't very... ready." 

"Are you sure there was _nothing_ you did?" 

"There was—I—oh." You glance at Harry. He doesn't stir. 

"What is it, Draco?" 

"I... I did have a bit of..." 

Dumbledore nods encouragingly. 

You put your hand in your pocket and pull out a tiny dragon. 

.:.:.:.:.:. 

**_Harry._**

When your eyelids flutter open to meet the stillness of night, you slide your hand to the left until it arrives at the edge of the surprisingly small bed. You try the same with your right hand, but there is no Draco in reach. Your eyes adjust after many blinks, and soon enough you see that you're in what vaguely resembles a room in St. Mungo's. 

"Holy fuck," you mutter before proceeding to close your eyes so later you can wake up on Voldemort's floor and see him dead and meet Draco in the Astronomy tower as you promised. 

"I understand how you feel," a voice vaguely resembling Dumbledore's says. 

"Who are you? I certainly hope you're not Vol—" 

"No, Harry, I'm not. I see you need your rest; perhaps we can continue this talk—" 

"Dumbledore?" You open one eye. "Dumbledore! I mean, Professor!" Your relief at seeing him makes you sit up so quickly that your head throbs for a few seconds. "Where am I? Where's Voldemort? Where's Draco? I mean—not that I—" 

"Draco has informed me about your unlikely friendship," he says, "and has revealed your admirable... connection with one another. In fact, just an hour ago he told me to thank you for helping him if you were to awaken. So, on his behalf, thank you." 

"Thank you for what? He told you we were together? Does everyone else know? Where's everyone else? Where's Lupin? Is Voldemort dead? What am I doing here? Since when have I—" 

Suddenly Dumbledore chuckles. And then, as if catching the laughter from himself, he chuckles again. And again and again, until his mirth is so strong that you start to laugh as well, not knowing what for, but knowing that things are fine, that there is nothing to worry about. You have never seen Dumbledore laugh before, and perhaps that's a good thing. It's too strongly contagious. It's hard to believe that this is the same Dumbledore who forgot the sparkle in his eye only days ago. Or perhaps weeks... what day is it anyway? 

"It's ten o' clock on Tuesday night. With Draco's help, you successfully killed Voldemort. However, he had a permanent magical shield against the Unforgivables, which ordinarily would have reflected the Killing Curse on everyone in the vicinity. Because of the prophecy, I was certain it would not apply to you. It did not, but there was another repercussion, and for this I ask forgiveness. Voldemort indeed received a strong blast of the Killing Curse, but a diluted version of it—pardon the term—spread out over all the wizards in the MacNair Manor at the time, with those nearest the epicenter receiving the strongest hits. The Order members and the Aurors are in this building, while the Death Eaters are in Azkaban. They are all still in comatose." 

"Will they be all right?" 

"We have reason to hope, Harry." 

"How about Draco? You were saying he helped me?" 

"He thought he saw you seeing him, but I suppose you did not. Yes, he cast a petrifying spell on Voldemort so you could finish the task. I must commend you, Harry. Voldemort is—was—so strong that had you uttered the Curse a moment too late, he would have escaped from you and Draco's grasp." 

"Is Draco here?" 

"No. He is at Hogwarts and well; he was not hit by the reflection to begin with." 

"What? How?" 

"Do you remember the dragon you gave him for his birthday?" 

Slowly, incredulously, you nod. 

"You saved him, Harry. You, being who you are, could not have died. But he was much closer in proximity to Voldemort than you. Had the Curse reflected properly on him—without your dragon's protection—he might have perished." 

Dumbledore's now serious countenance tells you what exactly 'perished' means. 

"I... I don't know what to say. Wow." 

He smiles. "You don't have to say a thing, Harry. I don't know if I was right in telling you all of that when you have just awoken. I only wanted you to be the first to know everything. Now, I would like you to stay here for a day or so, at least until someone else regains consciousness. If you go back to Hogwarts the press will start flocking to you instead of me, and you really need a bit of rest." 

You are too dumbfounded by Draco and the dragon and Voldemort being dead to do anything more than nod. 

"I'll see you tomorrow." 

"All right." 

"Draco will be visiting too." 

"Okay." 

"Thank you for saving the world." 

"You're welcome." 

"Good night, Harry." 

"Good night." 

.:.:.:.:.:. 

**_Draco._**

When you enter the hospital room early the next morning, Harry is seated on Lupin's bed. He is watching Lupin sleep, brushing the hair from Lupin's face so tenderly that if Lupin were conscious, you just might thrown a fit. Harry tells him, "You're going to wake up soon, aren't you? You have to. Wake up, Remus." But even under the intensity of Harry's stare, Lupin remains motionless. 

"One of the Aurors in the other room woke up an hour ago. Now we're sure everyone else is bound to wake up too." 

He looks up at you, and it takes only a moment for him to register both who you are and what you've just said. He all but leaps off Lupin's bed and pounces toward you, ending up with his arms tight about your waist and his chest smothering yours. 

"Harry, this isn't dignified," you say, but slowly you let your arms slither around him as well. You can feel him smiling into your shoulder. You also smile as you discover that he's _finally_ taken a shower and changed his clothes, and he smells like vanilla soap and fresh laundry, which for some bizarre reason stimulates your hormones. 

"There's no one else here," he says before moving to kiss you. 

"Doesn't it bother you that we are in a room full of near-corpses whose ghosts might just be watching?" 

"No." 

You teasingly dodge his lips and say, "I'm feeling jealous about you and Lupin, by the way." 

"What?" His expression turns suspiciously serious in a small unit of time. 

"You and Lupin." You lift an eyebrow. He nearly withers before you. 

"Well. There's something... I've forgotten to mention. It's not that important, really, it's just..." He sneaks a glance at Lupin. "...It's just something you might want to know." 

You hope this isn't what you think it is. 

"Remus—Lupin—Remus and I... had this... thing." 

Arms akimbo: "What thing?" 

"Draco, quit it, you look totally gay." 

You cross your arms over your chest instead. "Right. What thing?" 

"Erm. Thing. You know what I mean." 

"You had a _relationship!_" 

"You could call it that." 

"Well? What happened?" 

"Oh, it's over now. Completely. We're nothing more than friends." 

"You didn't—" 

"We _only_ kissed, Draco." 

"Good. Because that's exactly what happened between me and Pansy. I assure you there were no feelings involved; it was merely a prurient farce." 

"Which means...?" Now it is his turn to lift an eyebrow. You have to admit it's a bit endearing to know someone's jealous for you. 

"Which means she wanted me and I refused. Somewhat because her nose is too turned up. Mostly because I love you." 

"I... I feel exactly the same way." A smile starts in his eyes. He hastily adds, "I mean, not the pug nose, but loving you. I mean, I may not show it much, but I—I mean, I do, I guess I do love you." He looks embarrassed, but you think it's amusing how he becomes inarticulate when he tries to speak very sincerely. You suppose that's one of the quirks you have always liked about him. 

"I conjectured as much. Remember the dragon you gave me?" 

"Oh, yeah. That." 

"At first I thought you paid a fortune for it. Forgive my breeding. But now I know it was mostly you." 

"Yeah, well. I did still pay a lot for it, in case you think I'm cheap." 

You chuckle. "If you are, I won't hold it against you. I still find it hard to believe that the same kind of magic that saved you seventeen years ago has saved me now. It's an impossibly amazing coincidence." 

"You saved me too, you know. If you hadn't been there, everyone would have been doomed." 

"And I can't wait until my father hears about it." 

"I wanted to say thanks. For everything." 

"But before we melt into puddles of cheese, there's something I wanted to show you. I'm not sure whether my assumptions are correct, but here it is." You reach into your pocket and fish out the silver chain Lucius gave you when you were unwittingly Ported to his study. The white gold ring dangles from it; the diamonds glimmer in the dim light of the sunrise. You hold the ring between your fingers and show it to Harry, twisting it so he can see what's inscribed on the inside. "My father gave me this, but I wasn't inclined to inspect it until last night." Harry leans closer to see the letters clearly. 

_JP & LM._

"I was only thinking of the possibility that..." 

"Yes, they were together back in school. Remus told me." 

"Ah." Immediately suppositions begin to wander through your mind. How James and Lucius could possibly have attracted each other, how long they were together, what happened to their relationship that turned it into a tragedy of the past. It's difficult to imagine your father in love with someone, especially someone whose main purpose wasn't to bear him an heir or to entertain guests at dinner parties. It's also difficult to believe that he is still haunted by whatever happened so long ago. But what you find hardest to accept is that he might have given you the ring as a symbol of caution—because he thinks you and Harry will fall to the same end. 

Funny how you cannot imagine being with anyone else for the rest of your life. Funny how you wouldn't see it as life if you were. 

"We've got a very messed up relationship, past generation included," Harry says. 

You are about to come up with a witty reply, when he looks about him and discovers that not one patient has awoken. His face breaks into a grin. 

"So are we going to kiss now or what?" 

He presses his lips to yours, more of a prod or a challenge than an actual kiss, and waits for you to respond. You can't help surrendering. His tongue tastes a freshly brushed kind of minty. When you lean into him he abandons the seducing and devours your mouth full on. After a particularly loud moan—it ceases to matter if it's yours or his—the pleasure is disturbed by a teasing call: 

"Get a room!" 

Ah, so the werewolf is awake. 

.:.:.:.:.:. 

**_Harry._**

Draco asks you to keep the necklace/ring, saying that it was your dad's after all. You hesitate a bit before putting it in your pocket, unsure of whether either of you should keep it at all. But when you ask Remus he tells you it's a good idea to hold on to it, if only to keep the truth in what you know of your dad. You, Draco, and Remus talk for a while, with you and Draco mostly filling him in on the events. Soon enough the seventh year Gryffindors enter the room en masse, cheering and chattering as loudly as possible. They announce that classes have been cancelled for the day to make room for visits to parents and relatives from the mission who have started to wake up. Hermione gives you a tight big hug, causing the entire troop to follow. As they crush you in their arms, they simultaneously shower you with bags of sweets, bottles of Butterbeer, and endless questions. You are so glad to see them that you munch on all they give you and answer most of their questions. Some of them can't believe you're friends with Draco; some of them can't believe he helped you; and most of them haven't been able to accept that you killed Voldemort in the first place. The hospital room suddenly turns into a miniature Gryffindor Tower, gossip and all, and it is perhaps because of the overwhelming noise that Arthur Weasley from the bed in the far corner wakes up, and so do Snape and Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Snape looks livid at all these children rousing him, but he doesn't get a chance to speak because Dumbledore enters. 

Suddenly everything goes quiet. 

Dumbledore takes one look at Snape and announces, "Classes are still cancelled." 

The room explodes with applause. 

"Draco, may I speak with you for a while?" 

"Yes, sir." 

They retreat to a corner, but the loss of Draco's arm over you shoulder compels you to watch as they speak. The conversation looks serious; Draco nods a few times, and at one point, gestures in your direction. He nods one more time before walking over to you. 

"Harry," he says, softly enough for no one else to hear, "my father's been awake since dawn, and Dumbledore's allowed me to visit him before his trial. I thought you might like to come with me." 

'Why did you think that?' you almost ask, but you realize you both know why. 

"Dumbledore's convinced the healers to release you. Would you like to come along?" 

"Yes." Pause. "When?" 

Draco looks confused for a second. Then he says, "Right now, of course." 

Of course. 

He smirks at you for being so dim. You roll your eyes. 

But you sigh as you follow him out the door, trying to hide the fretful burning in your stomach. 

_TBC._


	19. Beginning

**Nineteen: Beginning**

**_Harry._**

It is only when you step through the doors of Azkaban prison that you realize it's over. 

Initially, the success of the mission prevented you from thinking too deeply about what might have happened if something had gone wrong. You were happy about the triumph and treated it matter-of-factly, preferring not to dwell on its prior impossibility and the great danger you had to overcome. But now, as you see the empty faces of all the Death Eaters, as you notice the ragged sideburns that have grown over two days and the wrinkles that have been formed by their frowns, a complacent wave of happiness washes over the gnawing hole in your heart. It's not merely because they're now in the place they truly deserve to be in, but also because there is no more prophecy and no more responsibility. You're on the way to being an ordinary boy. Nothing remains of Voldemort but a lousy scar. 

Some of the Death Eaters are still asleep, but those who are out of their comas glare and stare at you so piercingly that they remind you of the Muggle laser guns you've seen on television. You walk as nonchalantly as you can, hands in your pockets, eyes directed at the floor—but you can feel them sneering, hear them snorting at your audacity in coming here. 

"Here we are," the guard tells you, Dumbledore, and Draco. You're rather glad that the Dementors have gone. After the events of the past days, you don't much feel like fainting again. 

The guard stops at the door of a cell as small, dark, and dirty as all the others. Lucius Malfoy is inside, sitting prostrate on his wooden bed. He has small wrinkles on his face, his hair is disheveled to a laughable degree, his skin is pallid, his lips are bloodless. He seems to have lost much weight, and his eyes are as empty as his expression. 

Dumbledore steps forward to talk to him, gesturing for you and Draco to stay back awhile. The window is so small that when you step backward, you can't see him from your angle. Their talk is quiet and devoid of any visible feeling. You can almost imagine Dumbledore speaking with Lucius as if the latter were still the former's student, full of gentle criticism, even if Lucius deserves so much worse. Afterward Dumbledore tells you and Draco that he will wait at the lobby. He goes off, his steps echoing down the dank corridor. 

"Draco," Lucius greets once he's gone. He seems not to have noticed you're right outside his cell. "Fancy meeting you here." 

"Hello. How are you? I expect you're feeling a bit better now that you're awake." 

"Yes. I feel a whole lot better, actually. Thank you for asking." Lucius leans forward to look around Draco, where he spots you waiting half-beside, half-behind him. He stares at you for what seems to be a century. When he turns back to Draco the image of his blank eyes have burned into your brain: the anger has been replaced by apathy, but they are as heartless and as soulless as they were one October Saturday. 

Your skin twitches suddenly at the remembrance, tingling with indescribable sensations that leave the bitterness of disgust in your stomach. You somewhat want to fall into another coma. You somewhat want to run to the bathroom and vomit the emptiness. But you keep your feet firm on the stone floor, knowing that the only way to forget is to wait. 

Lucius tells Draco, "I thought you and Potter were finished." 

You can feel his hands on your skin. 

"I lied." And the Malfoys glower at each other, their eyes so fierce that you have to look. 

You can smell his smell; it washes through your nostrils and into the tunnels of your mind, the sharpness of freshly cut grass, of rain flooding woods of pine trees, of fresh storms through oceans as gray as his eyes, Draco's eyes, Lucius's eyes— 

"You're a bastard." 

Father and son look at you. Father smiles, deepening the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. He turns up his lips in the most condescending manner, but you remain staunch as you wait for his reply. 

"So I've been told," he says, apparently amused. 

"You know as well as I do that you deserve to be in this place." 

"That's some consolation, at least." 

"It's a good thing you don't seem to feel too bad about it, because I assure you, you'll be here for a long, long time." 

"We'll see about that." 

But you can already see that you don't have to speak as eloquently as a self-satisfied Death Eater to annoy one. His gaze fades into the faraway look of despair or resignation. You cross your arms over your chest, stepping back to observe him more clearly. He sits back down on his bench, pretending that there is no longer anyone at his door: a sign that he considers the conversation over. After a minute of silence Draco asks you if he can speak with Lucius alone. 

You've said what you had to say, and you see no reason to hang around and endure Lucius Malfoy's pathetic presence. But when you take the first step to leave, you remember something and step back. 

You pull Draco close and kiss him more passionately than you ever have before. 

Draco is speechless when you end the kiss and walk away. 

Revenge at its finest, and a good snogging too. You're becoming more like Draco everyday. 

.:.:.:.:.:. 

**_Draco._**

... 

When you were eight years old, Lucius taught you how to fly for the first time. He showed you how to mount properly, then handed you the broom and watched until you could do it on your own. Afterward he mounted the broom as well and flew in tandem with you, guiding your hands from behind so that you would know how to control the direction. The flight was exhilarating: it was in the middle of summer and the wind was fresh in your face and all you could think of was how much this resembled the paradise you had always read about in books. As long as your father was there to make sure you wouldn't fall, you'd be safe and happy. 

But the next day, when you wanted him to take you flying again, he told you he was busy. He locked himself up in his study. You wanted to fly so much that you decided to do it yourself. Mounting the broom was easy enough, and pushing off was a breeze. You flew in circles until your head spun with the sky. Once you got tired you flew downward, thinking that landing would come as naturally as the steering, but you didn't know how to slow down and raise the shaft upward before reaching the ground. You ended up with two badly scraped knees and tears falling down your face. A house-elf spotted you, and a minute later it came back with your father, who was livid with disappointment. 

"Couldn't you have waited?" His scowl was so ferocious that it couldn't have been out of love. 

You sniffled at him, unable to control your tears and the blood seeping from your knees. You looked down to see the raw skin stinging out crimson water. 

"You should take care of that," he said. Then he walked away. 

You didn't know any healing charms yet, so you had to do it the Muggle way, washing your knees with soap and water, and wrapping them up in bandages afterward. They stung with every slight press, and your eyes didn't stop watering. At one point you asked a house-elf to cast at least a numbing charm, but it shook its head. Lucius had ordered all of them not to help. 

... 

When Harry kisses you in front of him, it feels like flying and knowing how to land. 

You know that Lucius has always thought, at least secretly, that you are too weak and spineless to accomplish anything without his guidance. And he has always thought that you should rightly suffer if you go against his will or act without his consent. Lovingly he teaches you how to live; and in the most hostile manner he makes sure you suffer from your mistakes. 

It is over. Even the moment you turn back to him you know that you are a Malfoy only by name and nothing else. He keeps his expression impervious, but you know without speaking that he has already been hit. 

All those years you loved him without knowing who he truly was. All those years he let you curl up next to him on stormy nights, and all those mornings he pushed you away. All those afternoons he spent with you in the gardens, telling you stories about how they used these flowers and those leaves for potions-making centuries ago; all those midnights he prohibited you from going to bed before mixing the correct ingredients for sleeping draughts. All this time you loved him because you could not understand him. 

Now you do. Now you know. 

"I didn't plan to visit you," you tell him. "But I have questions to ask, and I would appreciate it if you answer them." 

He continues to look at you, refusing to say a word. Is this what we've come to, then? It would be easier, you think, if you could have a shouting match with him instead, if you could release all your emotion in a burst of rage and be over with it. But he's prepared to make this difficult, as he always has whenever you so much as form an opinion without his approval. He so loves being your father that even now, behind bars, he still insists on molding you in his image and likeness. 

"Father, why did you rape Harry?" 

"I only did it for your sake, Draco. It was the only way I could keep him from you." 

You want to ram your fist against his jaw for thinking that the universe would so easily bend to his will. But you want to hit him also because he could have succeeded. If you hadn't tried to get back together with Harry, if you had allowed him to live his life and 'heal,' Lucius would have triumphed while you recognized it as merely something Harry needed. Lucius did succeed, for a moment there. 

"There must be another reason, one that's not nearly as selfless." You sneer at him to show your sarcasm. "Did you do it for power? For pleasure? To avenge your past?" 

"I don't have the obligation to justify what I did." 

You want to pummel him to the floor. You'd do anything. 

You swallow forcefully, gathering your wits, before speaking again. "I've written mother all about what really happened when she thought she had Bedivere. There's no need to hide your reasons any further." Lucius blinks twice in succession, and then adopts his expressionless stance again. "Please. Just tell me the truth. It's my last request as your son." 

You know the truth. He did it for love long past, and for revenge. But you want him to tell you himself, because maybe in these late moments there is still hope that he loves you, somewhere deep inside him, enough to treat you as a human being and not his perfected heir. Maybe something in him has learned to accept you and your decisions and the one person you have chosen to love. Maybe you can make him see, in his past, possibilities for the present. Maybe. 

He lowers his gaze. 

You realize there can never be hope in despair. 

He is not about to speak. You pull yourself up to your full height, swallowing the tears that threaten to spring to your eyes. You gather your breath trying to think of what to say and a logical order for it, but in the end you know that this is not a business associate or a professor, but your father. It is your duty to speak to him from the core of your emotions, at least for the last time. 

"I—I would like to say thank you," you begin, finding your mouth dry and your throat on the verge of choking. "You were never a good man, but I recognize that sometimes you were, after all, a good father to me. It was during these times that you taught me how to stand up after every fall; when you taught me how to face the world with honor and pride and even courage; when you taught me not to let anyone push me over. The most important lesson I learned from you, Father, was how to take care of myself. And I am glad to have you as witness as I do it this very moment." You step back, your shoes scuffling nervously on the floor. You strain to hear sounds of the outside world, but silence rings in your ears. 

"Goodbye," you say at last, and it echoes on the walls. 

You begin to walk away. 

But he calls you back. 

"Draco—" 

And his voice is that of a desperate man, a voice full of shattered pride hoarse with a recognizance that he also needs someone to care for him. 

You cannot stop yourself. You turn around and wait for a miracle. 

"I did not do the deed to avenge my past." He keeps his eyes trained somewhere below yours. "I did it to relive my past." 

Your lips part involuntarily. You gape at him, and for a moment your breathing is all that exists, piercing the air and racing with disbelief. So finally you know why. So for the last time you are overwhelmed with disgust and abhorrence. Apart from his master you have never met a man so selfish, one who is willing to leave a boy's future in shambles on the way to nostalgia. Perhaps he did want to break you and Harry up. Even if he had no right, that would have been a less self-centered reason. But now you see that it was all about _him_ as usual, sacrificing James's son to resurrect James for one fuck. 

He is your father. All your life he has sheltered you. He has protected you from all the harm in the world. 

But he is the one you most need protection from. 

Time suspends itself. You shut your eyes and think of how Harry cried when, only days ago, he retold what happened. You think of the anger with which he burned the slashed bed. You think of how he said "Avada Kedavra," firm and clear but only after a few hesitations. You think of him falling unconscious on the stone floor and you rushing to him, knowing that you would spend the rest of your life with him, if only he were awake, if only he wanted to, if only Lucius hadn't destroyed him so irrevocably that sometimes he still sees your father in your eyes. 

When your eyelids flutter open they are sticky with tears. 

Lucius remains expressionless, still avoiding your gaze. 

For the second time, for the last time, you walk away in silence. 

He watches from behind his bars, but you don't look back. 

.:.:.:.:.:. 

**_Harry._**

When the sun has kissed the sky good night, you elbow your way through the sizeable crowd in the Gryffindor common room to reach the portrait hole. No one notices when you step out of the hole, escaping the party that they prepared, ironically enough, for the occasion of your return. The open space in the hall is a strong relief, and you lean against the wall for a while, catching your breath. Then you start walking at a leisurely pace, enjoying the corridors and corners you often love to explore. You find a certain security in the mystery of Hogwarts that you haven't felt in a long time. There is no one out to get you except maybe for hook-nosed professors who have nothing better to do with their lives. 

When you reach the door to the disused drawing room on the second floor of the Astronomy tower, you can't help pondering on how you're back where the pain began. The polished frames of the door stare at you, and you remember how you once entered to find Draco so far slouched in his armchair that he was almost supine. His spirit had been left in shambles by a Quidditch match, and yours by his father. 

For some odd reason, you know he's already inside. You knock instead of just entering as you usually do. You hear the muffled shuffling of his steps before the door creaks inward, hesitant in its slowness, half-expecting somebody else. 

Immediately you trap him in your arms, shut the door, push him against it, and devour his mouth. 

"Har—mmph—" 

He loses himself; so do you. When the kiss ends and you see his swollen wet lips and the ruffle in his hair, you have to smile. He looks quite endearing. "You know, I've always wanted to do that." You release him from the door but keep your left arm around his waist as you begin to observe the room. It's changed quite a lot in three months. 

What you first notice is that your armchair is gone, and that a comfortable yet simple-looking bed is settled at the corner. Draco has always been good at Transfiguration, and you're glad to see his talent come into practice. You look around to see that he has repaired the paint of the walls; they are no longer chipped sea green but perfectly textured beige, which appears orange in the dancing firelight. The fireplace is made of beautiful adobe bricks. The carpeting is lush under your feet. All that is actually left of the room is the small window and Draco's armchair. This is the past made new, molded to forget regret. 

He leads you to the bed. When you sit it is so soft underneath you that you have to enjoy the silk on your skin. As if in a dream, with almost foggy perception of your surroundings, you lie on your side, pressing your cheek against the cool smooth sheets. You're not sleepy, but you feel like you might wake up anytime now; everything here is so different and wonderful that it's almost absurd. 

Draco lies facing you, leaving only a few inches between your noses—just enough for you to clearly see his serene smile and burning flames reflecting in his eyes. Looking at him makes you want to fly, and even makes you feel like you're flying already: the wind breezes through your heart; somehow you feel like you can do anything you want to. It's not Voldemort's death or Lucius's punishment that gives you this enthusiasm, but Draco: Draco, who is still here after so many months, after so much waiting. 

This is how we can tell that we are loved: that we are invincible despite our flaws; that we remain staunch despite our weaknesses; and that we remain courageous despite our fears. That we stand at the end of each tragedy feeling not as if we killed our souls, but gave them life. 

As Draco leans toward you, you close your eyes and sigh, thinking, _this is what life is; this is what I've waited for._ Finally you can have what you've always wanted. Finally you can lie down and be yourself—not the hero of the wizarding world, but Harry, just Harry with Draco at his side. Finally you can end the day knowing that tomorrow you have something to wake up for. 

The blood rushes through your veins and you know you're finally alive. 

_FIN._


End file.
